


Just Lifeguards

by fayedartmouth



Category: Baywatch (2017)
Genre: Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 21:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16126955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: We’re lifeguards.  Firearm training isn’t covered in the handbook.





	Just Lifeguards

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
> 
> Warning: This deals with a stalker, and there's discussion of attempted assault but it's only referenced and mostly serves as context. The bulk of the fic is only tangentially related to that plot point.
> 
> A/N: So, in case someone doesn’t realize it, I’m basically just an h/c junkie. It’s basically all I write, and it is basically all I will ever write. Yes, I try to give the whump significance but at its core, it’s just because I like hurting my favorites. A lot. So, that’s what you’re going to get from me in various fantastical contexts. I worry sometimes that my fics will start to read redundant, but I suppose the best I can do is embrace it. My muse seems to do what it wants; I’m just along for the ride.
> 
> A/N 2: This is unbeta’ed. And I can’t type as fast as I think so sometimes stuff gets a little wonky. Apologies in advance. This also fills my h/c_bingo square of major injury or illness. I know nothing about being a lifeguard or any actual first aid, so I make all of this stuff up off the top of my head and go with it. If you have a particular need for things to be well researched and accurate, I am not the writer for you.

Mitch has a case.

He’s aware that he’s a lifeguard and that lifeguards don’t technically have cases just like they don’t technically have jurisdiction but he honestly doesn’t care. People get all concerned about the rules and legalities; Mitch is just concerned about keeping his bay safe.

This is especially true when there is something actively threatening not just his beach or his ocean -- but his people.

Schools of manta ray, sand grifters, drug smuggling. Even murdering real estate tycoons. Mitch takes those all very seriously.

But when someone is stalking his lifeguards? Putting them at risk?

Well, Mitch takes that personally.

All bets are off.

-o-

It starts with CJ reporting a strange man standing beside her tower when she reported for duty early a few weeks ago. He lingered as she approached, and when she asked if he was okay, he finally bolted. It’s a public beach, people are weird and shy, so there hadn’t been much to it.

Until she saw him again the next day.

And then she saw him standing at the top of the ramp the day after that.

She’d called for backup at that point, and when Mitch came running, the guy didn’t come back the next day. To be safe, Mitch had put together a profile and contacted Ellerbee at the police station. There was nothing to be done for it, though, and Mitch remained vigilant as he always did.

Then, the guy showed up at Summer’s tower at the end of her shift. There were always stragglers, so it hadn’t bothered her. Not until he followed her all the way out to her Jeep in the parking lot before disappearing.

Ellerbee insisted that his hands were still tied, and Mitch upped his game.

He was frustrated, then, when Stephanie came into HQ after work one night, sporting fresh bruises on her arm and scraped knuckles. The man -- the same one, they were all sure -- tried to grab her, started to drag her off. She smashed his face in.

This time, Ellerbee agreed that action must be taken. He worked with Mitch to draw up a plan that involved police support.

“Remember,” Ellerbee told him sternly. “That means that the police are in charge. I don’t want no lifeguard trying to do shit because you all aren’t armed.”

“I know,” Mitch said.

“I’m serious,” Ellerbee said. “I get it, your beach, your people, but this guy -- whoever he is -- is escalating his behavior. Next time, he’s probably going to be armed. Maybe a knife. Hell, maybe he just unpacked a revolver and shoots the place up. Now, as lifeguards, you know what you’re looking for, so we’ll be in constant contact, but you have to let the police be the ones to engage.”

“I completely understand,” Mitch said.

-o-

Mitch understands.

He explains the plan in great detail to the team, telling them what to look for, when to report it, and how Ellerbee will have his beat cops running extra shifts up and down the beach until the guy is caught. He is explicit about this, about not engaging, about how backup is literally a call away.

Then he dismisses his lifeguards and asks Brody to hold back.

“Yo,” Mitch says, watching the others file out. “So I wanted to talk to you.”

Brody looks earnest; he’s been bothered by this case, too. “Yeah, sure. I think it’s great that we’ve got the cops working on this one for us. Crazy stalker dudes; completely not our thing.”

The last few lifeguards have left the room now. “Uh huh,” Mitch says dismissively. He looks at Brody, nonplussed. “We’re going to make it our thing.”

Brody blinks, looking genuinely confused. “But you just said that plan--”

“For everyone else,” Mitch says. “But for us?”

“I don’t understand,” Brody says, shaking his head.

“I have a different plan for us.”

Brody is starting to look vaguely distressed in that way of his. “But why?”

“Because we’re lifeguards, man!” Mitch exclaims.

Brody looks dubious.

“Just trust me,” Mitch says. “I’ll be great. I have a great plan.”

Because Mitch understands.

The cops have a functional plan to help.

Mitch has a better plan to get the job done.

-o-

Honestly, it’s not even Mitch’s most extreme plan. It’s not his most ridiculous or most dangerous or most unreasonable. He just wants to make sure that he and Brody have eyes on the beach and are in place to actively pursue a lead before tipping it off to Ellerbee.

“Because if we get Ellerbee involved, the dude has a chance to run,” Mitch explains, because he’s thought about this. “Looking suspicious might get someone questioned, but unless we can pinpoint actual evidence, Ellerbee won’t have anything to hold them on.”

Brody shakes his head; he’s having trouble keeping up. “But that’s why Ellerbee’s going to question the guy,” he says. “Right?”

“And the guy lies, gets away, comes back in a disguise, and then what?” Mitch prompts him.

Brody frowns, brow furrowing. “Ellerbee’s not dumb,” he says.

“But he’s a cop,” Mitch says. “He has to be a cop. We’re lifeguards. We don’t have jurisdictions and rules.”

“But I thought all that is why cops were able to do their job safely,” Brody says.

“Never mind that!” Mitch huffs. “This is the plan we’re following.”

Brody hesitates, a pained expression on his face. “I’m all for being proactive, Mitch. I mean, I get that, and I want to catch this guy. The idea that he’s checking out my friends -- my girlfriend -- I don’t like it,” he says. “But you said, man. We’re lifeguards. We have to be watching the water, not looking for suspicious creeps, which, by definition, is like half the white guys out there. Our profile’s not exactly specific, and if I’m checking out every white guy there is, then how am I watching the water?”

“The beach has always been part of our jurisdiction,” Mitch reminds him.

“I thought we didn’t have jurisdiction--”

“You know what I mean,” Mitch says curtly. “We protect the beach, not just from drowning. But from everything.”

“I know, I know, I do,” Brody says, even though it sounds like he doesn’t. “And yeah, of course, we’ll keep our eyes open. We’ll be more aware. But I don’t know. The cops are upping their patrols, right? They’re going to be right there.”

“And if we spot it first?” Mitch prompts him.

“Literally, you just explained this to the group,” Brody says. “We call it in, the cops show up, it’s done.”

“The cops ask a few questions, they’re hindered by protocol, the guy gets away,” Mitch says. “Our responsibility as lifeguards requires us to do more.”

“I’m really not sure you actually know what the definition of a lifeguard is in every other part of the country,” Brody says.

Mitch puffs up his chest, proud and defensive. “We define it differently here at Baywatch.”

“They why did you give a totally different set of directions to everyone else?” Brody asks.

Mitch glares at him a little. “Because I thought I could trust you to go above and beyond.”

“So you’re admitting that it’s not within our normal duties?”

“I’m saying that most of the team are targets for his guy,” he says. “I’m saying that I thought I could trust you to have my back on this one.”

Brody eyes him, a little suspicious. “Lifeguard backup?”

Mitch nods resolutely. “Yeah!”

Brody sighs, rolling his eyes. “That sounds like BS.”

“It’s an order,” Mitch counters.

“Ugh, fine,” Brody mutters, turning toward the door. “You’re the lieutenant.”

Mitch cocked a grin to follow. “And don’t you forget it.”

-o-

When Mitch is on duty, he’s completely, one hundred percent present. And, for the record, Mitch is _always_ on duty. He has the most saves, the most interventions, and he’s stopped more crimes than the rest of his team combined. This is not because his team is full of slouches. No, it’s because Mitch actively redefines what it means to be a lifeguard.

So when he says that he’s on his game this morning, he’s really saying something.

He diligently watches his designated area, taking equal turns scanning the water for signs of distress and monitoring the beach for unusual or problematic behavior. As an extra precaution, he mentally catalogs every person on the beach, sorting them into groups of locals, vacationers and questionable entities. It helps that Mitch knows this bay well. Most of the locals, he knows by name, and he’s gotten pretty good at spotting vacationers.

As for the rest, there’s always a bit of a mixed element on the beach; it’s just the nature of the game. It’s a public beach, which means no one is overtly excluded, and Mitch has never been one to turn people away from the wonder of the water. That said, it’s this category of people that elicits his extra attention.

Most of them are harmless, and Mitch knows that.

But one of them out there is stalking his lifeguards.

Mitch will not tolerate that.

So if Mitch spends a little extra time watching the sand today, he thinks that’s not unwarranted.

After all, Mitch has stopped many disasters by watching the beach. He’s saved people from drowning before they even step foot in the water. He’s prevented domestic disputes, lost children, stolen items, fistfights, drunken brawls, sexual harassment and more. Just by being proactive.

From his spot in tower one, he has the best damn view, so the burden of responsibility falls on him. It’s no coincidence that he can see tower two from his perch. He momentarily trains his binoculars there, spotting Brody. He doesn’t exactly make a habit of checking up on his lifeguards. He just happens to check up on Brody more often than any of the rest.

He’s pleased to find that Brody, for all his bluff and blunder, is following Mitch’s lead exactly, actively scanning the water and the beach. Then Brody turns his binoculars toward Mitch. Directly at Mitch.

Mitch wonders if Brody sees something, and he leans forward to look harder.

Brody does the same thing.

Confused, Mitch looks down, to see if something is happening right next to him, so close that he’s missed it. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, however. Vexed, he looks back to Brody again.

Across the sand, Brody is smirking and giving him the finger.

Shit, Mitch thinks as he gets back to work.

This is what he gets for hiring Olympic gold medalists with a criminal record. Not to mention idiot smartasses from Iowa who probably grew up swimming with farm animals.

Glowering, Mitch gets back to work.

-o-

This is how the day goes. Mitch has to stop and save a few people, naturally; that _is_ part of the job description. But actively scanning the beach is _also_ part of the job description. Sure, they hire people who are physically up to the task, but they also look for people who are fully committed to paying attention.

It’s not about getting a tan.

That’s just what happens when you patrol the beach.

The fact that Brody is supposed to know this by now and still acts like an idiot is frustrating to Mitch. He’s not exactly dwelling on it, it’s just that he can’t get it out of his mind as he watches the beach for signs of suspicious activity.

In fact, he’s so angry while looking at the beach that he already has in mind the points he’ll make to Brody tonight about attitude, following orders and being a positive member of the team. He’ll sit Brody down and make sure he understands that the Leeds case wasn’t the aberration. It was par for the whole damn course.

Not the whole nearly dying part. _That’s_ not what lifeguards do. But they do take risks. They put themselves out there because the people, the beach, the bay -- all that comes _first_.

He’s got half of his speech mentally prepared when the CB in his tower crackles to life.

“Come in, Tower One, come in.”

Mitch is vaguely surprised; it’s been quiet today overall. No calls for backup. He picks up his receiver. “Tower One here.”

“Yeah, it’s Brody at Tower Two,” comes the static laden voice.

Mitch finds himself scowling. “Shouldn’t you be working?”

“Uh, I am,” Brody’s voice comes back to him. 

“Then why are you making social calls on the CB!” Mitch hisses.

“I’m not,” Brody says, sounding annoyed now. “You said to call you if I saw anything suspicious.”

“And you acted like that was some impossible tasks,” Mitch snaps back.

“No, I merely questioned whether it was within our jurisdiction,” Brody says.

Mitch is glaring at the radio for the lack of something better to project his frustrations onto. “And I told you it is!”

“Which is why I’m calling you to report suspicious activity!” Brody is almost yelling back.

“You are?”

“Yes!”

“Oh,” Mitch says. “Where?”

“Down the beach, halfway between tower two and tower three,” Brody says. “Nothing definitive, but definitely a guy who looks off.”

“Great,” Mitch says, grabbing his gear instinctively.

“You want me to call it in?” Brody asks.

“What? No,” Mitch says. “I’m coming over; we’ll check it out.”

“Mitch--”

“Shut up and stay there,” Mitch orders. “And don’t take your eyes off the target.”

It’s hard to tell if Brody groans over the crackle of the CB as Mitch puts the receiver back.

Either way, it doesn’t matter.

Mitch is on the case.

-o-

Mitch jogs his way over to tower two, smiling at people as he passes in order to allay their concerns. Lifeguards running on beaches is a thing; usually a thing that makes people nervous. Most people realize that running means that there is an incident on the beach and they are properly concerned or worried. Other people just like to see lifeguards run in their swimsuits. Honestly, Mitch doesn’t have a problem with either.

All part of being a lifeguard, as far as he’s concerned.

When he gets to tower two, Brody is still dutifully manning his post. Mitch attempts to be discreet as he climbs up the ramp, coming up alongside him. “What do you got?”

Brody tips his head toward tower three. “It’s a white dude, probably in his 30s, but it’s hard to tell with the size of the sunhat he’s wear,” he reports. “Long hair, which isn’t put up, and he’s the only dude here wearing long pants, long sleeves _and_ shoes with socks.”

Mitch squints down the beach, and Brody hands him the binoculars.

“Not to mention, he’s got the biggest sunglasses possible,” Brody adds. “And he’s literally got no gear. He’s just sitting there.”

 

He’s right where Brody said he was, and Brody’s description is dead on. The guy does stick out like a sore thumb. “Yeah, definitely not here for your typical day at the beach,” Mitch observes, watching him for a moment to gauge any behavioral cues.

“I’ve watched him for a bit, and despite the fact that he looks weird, he’s not actually doing anything wrong,” Brody says. “But I don’t know. He fits the profile. I thought maybe we should call it in?”

“No, you made the right call,” Mitch says, putting the binoculars down again.

“Great,” Brody says, reaching for the CB. “Ellerbee is just on the other channel--”

“No, not Ellerbee,” Mitch says. “You made the right call to me.”

Brody’s face actually falls a little.

“Look,” Mitch says. “Right now, we’ve just got a weird guy. There are weridoes up and down this beach all the time and most of them are harmless. We can’t turn over everyone to Ellerbee who acts different.”

“But I thought that was what we were supposed to do,” Brody says. “As per your briefing. This morning.”

Brody keeps saying this like it’s going to make some kind of difference. He’s being a little denser than usual today.

“We’re supposed to identify strange behavior and follow up,” Mitch clarifies.

“By contacting Ellerbee,” Brody prompts him, as if hoping this will make Mitch remember.

It does make Mitch remember. It makes him remember how frustrating working a case with Brody can be. “If we call Ellerbee now, all he can do is question the guy. The guy gets spooked, knows we’re onto him, and he’s gone. Our one chance is done.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the way Ellerbee said it,” Brody ventures.

“But that’s the way it plays out,” Mitch reasons. “Ellerbee’s a cop; he has restrictions. We’re lifeguards!”

“Dude, Ellerbee is right over at tower four so it’d be super easy for him to question the dude, run his ID, all that shit,” Brody says, pointing down the beach. He’s almost whining now. “I can literally see him right now.”

“And we’re closer,” Mitch tells him. “Not to mention, we’re better suited to gauge whether or not a beach goer belongs here. Given that we’re lifeguards. All _we_ have to do is check it out.”

This further distresses Brody. “We?”

“Yeah,” Mitch says. “You and me. We.”

Brody’s shoulders slump; he gestures to the water. “But what about the water?” he says, a little pleadingly now. “Do you remember what happened last time you pulled me off the beach for a case?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mitch says, starting down the ramp. “We stopped a major drug trafficking operation, put a stop to massive real estate fraud and prevented a murder plot.”

Brody looks positively incredulous now. “And are you forgetting about the part where you got fired and I nearly got killed -- twice! Not to mention you getting shot--”

“That’s not going to happen on every case,” Mitch corrects him impatiently.

“It shouldn’t happen on any case,” Brody tells him. “Because we’re lifeguards. Firearm training isn’t covered in the handbook.”

“We have to be prepared for everything,” Mitch replies, because that answer is perfect for every situation, especially where Brody is concerned.

Brody’s look of incredulity deepens to nearly comical levels. “Even combat training?”

“Anything I say, jackass,” Mitch says, and he’s not trying not to show how much he relishes this. Because this is a serious case, but messing with Brody is always a good time. “Remember who’s in charge here, and my lieutenant balls outrank your weird three year old girl balls every day of the week.”

Brody sighs, clearly aware that this line of argument is not going to get him anywhere. He’s learning, at least. Even if only by degrees. “I’ll do what you say because I have to,” he says, raising one finger to be menacing. It does not have the desired effect on Mitch. “But leave my balls out of it.”

“If you want to leave your balls behind, that’s up to you,” Mitch grunts, starting back down the ramp. “Now let’s move.”

He doesn’t look back; he doesn’t have to.

All his pissing and moaning aside, Mitch knows Brody is just a step behind him.

-o-

Brody is Mitch’s most vocal dissenter. Brody will question his decisions, suggest strange alterations to Baywatch policy to suit his interests, and he’s about the only lifeguard on duty who has the audacity to ask why when Mitch comes up with their latest case. 

That said, Brody is also Mitch’s most loyal follower. Somehow, Brody is always the first one to follow Mitch into the action, no matter how ill advised said action will be. He may question their role as lifeguards more than anyone else, but he’s also the one who lives up to Mitch’s definition more than the rest. How this is possible, Mitch isn’t totally sure. Mitch figures that Brody has mixed instincts in this regard, and his sense of self preservation is coming face to face with his desire to play nice with the team.

In this regard, Mitch knows he has to cut Brody some slack. Being a good team member is not something Brody is well versed in, even if he is eager to learn. Being a selfish asshole, on the other hand, comes naturally to him. So it’s not a surprise that he questions Mitch even if he ultimately chooses to fall in line.

Although, a few months into the job, Mitch had sort of hoped that Brody would be past that. Brody had ended up all in for the Leeds job, and he’s been a stellar lifeguard ever since. He knows the rules; he plays by the book. He’s had a lot of saves, and he’s grown more in a short amount of time than any other lifeguard on Baywatch.

So why is he still pulling shit like this? Why does he still question Mitch’s choices when Mitch has been proven right every single time? It’s like there’s some disconnect, like Brody knows what it means to be a lifeguard but when it comes to the practical application, things just get crossed. 

Mitch will have to figure that out. Maybe some more training. An extended mentoring. Until Brody’s first and last instinct is to be the lifeguard Mitch needs him to be.

As far as Mitch is concerned, that training can start now.

With their stalker on the beach.

They make their approach easily enough, acting like they’re on patrol. No one sees this as anything out of the ordinary; patrol is part of what they do. Usually it’s not in pairs, but it’s also not unprecedented. Mitch directs them in a casual path, but he doesn’t quite meander as they cut closer toward the man. When they draw closer, Mitch stops them, positioning himself so he has a view of the guy while Brody is facing the ocean.

“Okay,” Mitch says, keeping his voice low as he eyes the man. The man has noticed him, but he seems twitchy. Sweaty maybe. But he is wearing far too much clothing for the hot day. “We’ll split up here, get him surrounded. You take the six o’clock.”

Brody gives him the look; that look that only Brody musters up; that look that says he has no idea what Mitch is talking about. “Six o’clock? Are we talking military time again because I don’t know what 6 AM has to do with this.”

Mitch lets out a huff of exasperation. “Six o’clock,” Mitch says, pointing in the direction he means. “It’s about directionality.”

“Then why didn’t you just point?” Brody asks.

“Can you please try not to be stupid for the next five minutes?”

“I’m not stupid,” Brody retorts, sounding basically completely stupid. “This whole tactic is stupid.”

“No, it’s smart,” Mitch says, leaving no room for argument as he keeps the man pinned in his sights. “Now, I’ll go that way; you go that way.”

Brody seems to know which way to go now, but he can’t make it easy. Of course not. “And do what exactly?”

“Cut off all possible lines of flight,” Mitch says, because this seems entirely self evident to him.

“But why is he running?” Brody asks.

“He won’t be, if we’re discreet,” Mitch says. “You can be discreet, right?”

“Mitch, we’re wearing red swimsuits with big letters that say LIFEGUARD, which is what we are, by the way,” he counters. “Our whole thing is to not be discreet.’

This is getting on Mitch’s nerves. He has better things to do. Like catching stalkers on beaches that are targeting his employees. “Just shut up,” he hisses. The man is still there; he shows no signs of moving, but there’s still something twitchy about him. “And do your job.”

Brody is somber; serious for a moment. “I really think we should just get Ellerbee for this one.”

“There’s no jurisdiction for Ellerbee to hold him,” Mitch argues.

“Just to stalk him?” Brody asks.

“Observing, we’re observing,” Mitch says, not letting his gaze waver, no matter how utterly ridiculous and frustrating Brody is at the moment. “That’s what lifeguards do.”

Brody is less and less on task with this one. He’s not trying to be discreet. His voice is way too loud and he’s looking wherever he wants with no indication that he’s trying to remain unobtrusive in their keyed pursuit. “I’m not sure you actually know what the definition of a lifeguard is,” he says. “Like, maybe you’ve been on the job too long that you’ve forgotten what it says in the job description.”

Mitch glances away from his mark to give Brody a perturbed glare. “You’re the low idiot on the totem pole, I’m the celebrated veteran who also happens to be your boss.”

Finally -- _finally_ \-- Brody throws up his hands. Literally. The man glances at them anxiously and Mitch bites back a curse as Brody finally acquiesces. “Fine!” he says, starting off in the general direction of six o’clock, muttering the whole way. “Be a lifeguard, they said. Get a tan, they said. It’ll rehab your image. It’ll be great!”

This is not the plan Mitch had.

He sets off in the opposite direction, the man still clearly locked in his sights.

Fortunately, Mitch has never needed Matt Brody to finish a case. 

And he’s not about to start now.

-o-

Mitch is completely focused.

This is why he’s so good at what he does. He sets his mind to something, and that’s all there is. He cannot be swayed; he will not be swayed. 

So the strange dude on the beach?

Will have a complete description for the police with an accurate assessment of his movement over a period of time. It’ll be great for building a profile and narrowing in on him as a suspect in the case.

Focus as he is, he doesn’t see Brody until after the kid yells his name.

In fact, he doesn’t see Brody at all; he sees a flash of red shorts and a blue shirt sprinting across the beach on Mitch’s six o’clock.

“Mitch!” Brody screams.

Mitch is frozen; Brody is blowing this. He’s blowing their surveillance. Mitch looks at the guy, who is clearly spooked now, ready to run.

Brody, moron that he is, is still running. He screams louder. “Mitch! Duck!”

This doesn’t make any sense to Mitch.

Until he sees the other guy, the only one who’s standing still as everyone around them turns to flee. Mitch doesn’t get a good look at him, but he sees the steely look in his eye as he lifts his hand and something glints in the summer sun.

“Mitch!” Brody yells once more, coming between him and the man before stopping just short of Mitch, stopping abruptly at a sound that cuts across the beach with a deafening retort.

Brody’s not running anymore, but the mark is gone. Mitch looks to Brody, not sure why he’s decided to be such an asshole now. Why did he compromised their position? Why did he give their pursuit away? And why the hell did he stop there?

And why the hell is he looking at Mitch like that?

Eyes wide; mouth open. Brody looks down at his chest, lifting his fingers up and blotting at a stain on his chest.

He pulls his fingers away, looking at them as they glint red in the sunlight.

Brody doesn’t understand.

Mitch doesn’t understand.

The second man.

Brody’s sprint.

The sound.

The blood?

Brody looks at Mitch again, meeting his gaze. This time, Brody understands. This time, he gets it.

Mitch still doesn’t have a clue.

None of it makes sense; not a single piece of it. Mitch had a plan; Mitch had a case; Mitch had it all figured out.

And now Brody is standing there with blood on his fingers while the rest of the beach clears and a loud noise reverberates over the sound of their fleeing screams.

Then Brody blinks.

He swallows convulsively, color draining from his face as his knees go weak and he hits the sand.

He blinks again before crumpling all the way to the ground.

Then Mitch sees the man behind Brody, the one looking straight at him with a gun in his hand.

Now it makes sense; the critical piece falls into place. Mitch had a plan; Mitch had a case; Mitch had it all figured out.

He also had the wrong guy.

He’d been so busy watching the wrong one that he totally missed the pulling the trigger.

And putting a bullet right through Brody’s back.

-o-

Mitch is only frozen in his place for a fraction of a second.

It’s barely the blink of an eye, the downbeat of a heart. It’s not a full breath; it’s not a full thought.

A fraction of a second when Mitch can’t think, can’t move, can’t comprehend what the _hell_ just happened. It comes at him at once -- the myriad of sensations and thoughts and emotions -- and he’s faced with the horrible conclusion that he should have seen this coming.

It’s only a fraction of a second.

It’s a whole lot longer than what he usually takes.

It feels like a lifetime.

Not his life, of course.

Brody’s.

A fraction of a second too long.

Before Mitch remembers: he’s a lifeguard.

Just like that, he springs into action.

With long strides, he cuts a path to Brody, going to his knees by the other man’s side. This much, at least, is instincts, but the sight of the blood almost makes him freeze again.

Blood is something he’s dealt with before, but usually not in these quantities. Because when Mitch looks at Brody, it’s honestly all he can see. Blood. Everywhere. And more spilling out with every second that passes.

Mitch curses. He’s especially adept at CPR, but he knows the basics of first aid. He knows how to assess a wound.

But first he has to see the damn thing.

There’s nothing he can do about the blood, but Brody’s hands are grappling at the injury, his head lifting off the sand in some vain attempt to see it better.

This whole situation feels frantic, which is why Mitch has to be calm. 

“Okay, let me see,” he says, taking Brody’s hands in his own. “You need to let me see.”

Brody’s not completely listening to him. He fights, rocking back and forth to strain his head, hands slipping through Mitch’s own, the blood making them hard to hold.

“Brody, I need to see,” Mitch says again, firm and resolute. Not panicked. Not panicked. He ignores the blood, takes the fingers and clapses them in his own. “Let me see.”

Brody’s still not listening, straining against him even as Mitch easily pushes his hands to his side. When he presses them into the sand, Brody tries to lift them again, but Mitch is faster and now that he’s in position, there’s not much Brody can do.

Also, Brody’s bleeding like a stuck pig. So this isn’t exactly a fair comparison.

“Okay,” Mitch says, doing his best to wipe away the blood. It smears over the front of Brody’s swim shirt, but Mitch narrows in on the hole that’s been ripped through the fabric. “Okay.”

He says it like it means something. Like he knows what the hell is wrong or what the hell to do.

That’s a total lie, though.

There’s a hole in Brody’s chest. A big hole. In perspective, Mitch can reason that it’s not _that_ big -- Brody would be dead if it were huge -- but in the heat of the moment, it’s safe to say that any hole in Brody’s chest is going to seem disproportionately large.

And it gushes blood, pulsing with it in fact.

Brody is still lifting his head, trying to see. “Shit,” is all he says, and as much as Mitch is trying not to panic, Brody already seems on the cusp of it. “Shit.”

Mitch doesn’t say anything, even if he silently agrees. It takes him another second to process the location of the wound. It’s not a shoulder shot, but it’s on the opposite side of Brody’s heart. It’s probably hit the lungs, Mitch can only guess, but that’s not the worst of it.

No, because Mitch remembers that Brody was looking at him when this happened. 

That means that the shot came from behind him.

Which means.

This time, Mitch does curse. “It’s an exit wound,” he breathes.

Brody all but cries. “I’ve been shot,” he says, sounding like he can’t believe it.

That’s why it looks so big. It is big. Exit wounds are always bigger. It’s science or something. It also means Brody is bleeding from a wound to the back as well.

Brody’s chest hitches, and his mouth falls open. He’s gaping, literally gasping for air. “I’ve been shot,” he says again, as if he’s trying to convince himself that it’s real. Or not real. Mitch isn’t sure which.

Mitch isn’t sure which for himself, either.

All he knows is that he has to stop the bleeding.

He looks at the blood, still spilling in vast quantities from Brody’s chest. 

He has to try, anyway, before Brody bleeds to death on this very beach.

Gritting his teeth together, Mitch straightens his arms and presses down as hard as he can, putting pressure directly on the wound. He understands, from his copious experience with CPR, how much force is warranted, but it’s harder to do when Brody shudders in pain beneath him.

Mitch doesn’t relent. He hopes, he really has to hope, that this can stem the flow from the front, and with enough direct pressure, he might be able to use gravity and the ground to slow the flow from the entrance wound as well. 

He looks up, remembering the next important step of being a lifeguard. He’s a first line of defense in situations like this (not like this, there have never been situation like _this_ ), but he needs back up.

“Someone call 911!” he yells at no one in particular.

The crowd has dispersed and gathered, a few lingering closer than the rest. They’re holding phones. Someone says, “Already on their way!”

Mitch doesn’t know if that’s true; he has no way of checking.

He looks back at Brody and loses that train of thought entirely anyway. Because now, Brody’s head has dropped back to the sand. Maybe he’s too weak to hold it up. Maybe he’s given up on it. In either case, he’s looking at Mitch with wide, terrified blue eyes.

Mitch wants to swear again. The word gets caught in his throat.

Brody blinks a few times, tears welling in his eyes as his breathing staggers and Mitch can feel his pulse falter under his pressure.

Swallowing hard, Mitch musters up his voice. “What the hell did you do?” he demands, and it’s harsher than he means. A growl.

Starting to tremble, Brody’s breathing is turning shallow now as he wets his lips and tries to speak. “I’ve been shot.”

He still sounds surprised.

Mostly, he sounds scared shitless.

And Mitch doesn’t understand it at all. “But how?” he asks.

“The dude,” Brody says, clearly working to find his voice. The pronunciation is breathless. “Y-you didn’t see him. I mean, not the creepy one. The. The other one. Green hat. D-dorky Hawaiian trunks. Flamingo umbrella.”

It’s a pained recitation that is unsettlingly precise. This not only speaks to Brody’s attention to detail in this case, but the fact that Mitch didn’t see it.

At all.

“Where, though?” Mitch asks, keeping the pressure steady, no matter how much it looked like it hurt Brody, even if tears were starting to slip from his eyes, running back into his hair. “I was watching the mark!”

Brody shakes his head, and it’s not clear what he’s disagreeing with. It’s not clear that he knows what he’s disagreeing with. Nothing is clear anymore except the amount of blood welling up between Mitch’s clenched fingers. “I saw -- a gun,” Brody says, and his eyebrows knit together. Concern; confusion. “He was -- he was going to shoot. You.”

That’s why Brody ran. That’s why Brody blew their discreet cover. That’s why Brody came between them.

That’s why.

But Mitch still doesn’t understand why.

He screws his face up, looking at Brody like he’s speaking gibberish. “And you jumped in the way,” Mitch concludes the story. It’s not quite a statement. It’s not quite a question. It’s a dawning realization that Mitch has no idea what to actually do with.

Brody blinks a few more times. He’s crying more now, his breathing more jagged as the tremors increase over the length of his body. “He was -- he was -- going to shoot you.”

Mitch’s arms are starting to ache; his fingers feel like they’re locking up from the constant pressure. “And he shot you instead.”

Brody’s face breaks, momentarily dissolving into a sob. “Shit, Mitch.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mitch says, the words coming reflexively in response to Brody’s increasing fear. He says it even though the whole in Brody’s chest is too big and there’s just too much blood. “Don’t worry about it.”

Brody is starting to cry again. “Shit,” he says again, as if that somehow makes this situation clearer for him. “I’ve been shot.”

He sounds more surprised each time he says it.

More terrified.

Mitch forces himself to stay calm. “You’re going to be okay,” he says, and it’s a stupid, audacious kind of lie. The one you tell someone because you want them to feel better not because it’s true. And it means nothing as Brody’s face goes pale as fast as the sand around him is going red.

Brody can’t see that, but he knows. His body tries to twist, bucking weakly against Mitch’s unyielding pressure. “But, like, I’ve been shot,” he pants, almost hysterical now. “It hurts.”

“I know, but I’ve got you,” Mitch assures him, and that usually works on people. But most of the people Mitch saves haven’t been shot. In fact, none of them have been shot. Mitch can do CPR and the Heimlich, and he’s applied bandages and sunscreen, but gunshots? He’s not trained for gunshots. “I’ve got you.”

Brody’s heart flutters against Mitch’s fingers, which are now coated in Brody’s blood. “Am I dying?”

Mitch’s stomach hurts; his chest hurts. His whole body hurts and he’s not the one with a hole ripped through his chest. “No,” he says, shaking his head. He’s adamant not because it’s true, but because he needs to believe it. Brody needs to believe it.

Brody’s a contrary son of a bitch, sometimes. His face crumples again. “I think I’m dying.”

Mitch’s own resolve feels like it’s flagging. “You’re not,” he insists, because he _wants_ to believe it, more than he’s ever wanted anything.

With a strangled gasp, Brody starts to strain even more. There’s a wet quality to his breath now, and Mitch can almost feel it as it pulls painfully in his damaged lung. No matter how much Brody tries to breathe, it seems to be a losing proposition now, and Brody’s eyes start to go a little wild. “I’m a -- I’m a lifeguard,” Brody says, and he sounds surprised. So damn surprised. “Why am I shot?”

Somewhere, Mitch can hear the sirens. He hears the crowd tittering behind him, and someone says, “Help’s almost here!”

Mitch can’t hear them, though, not really. He’s too focused on the sound of Brody’s fading voice, which makes him sound younger than he is, too young. And there’s too much blood. It’s everywhere. He sees it, covering his own hands, spilling over Brody’s chest. The sand beneath them is starting to congeal.

Why can’t Mitch stop the blood?

“Shit, Mitch,” Brody says, and something gurgles in his chest. Brody chokes for a second, spluttering for air and bringing up blood instead as it flecks his lips. “I can’t…”

“Brody,” Mitch says, and Brody chokes again, spraying more blood as he coughs. “Stay with me.”

This time, Mitch knows that Brody tries. Brody’s a contrary son of a bitch, but he loves Baywatch. He’d never leave, not Baywatch, not Mitch. Not unless he had absolutely no choice. Almost simultaneously, Brody’s breathing tapers off to a desperate wheeze while Mitch feels his pulse start to hammer erratically in his chest.

“Brody!” he yells, his most demanding, unwavering voice.

But Brody’s eyes have rolled back and his eyelids have closed.

He’s gone.

He’s gone.

There’s nothing else Mitch can do.

Then, suddenly, he’s wrenched back, and he falls hard on his ass. He’s too shocked to fight, and he watches numbly as a pair of medics take over, one swiftly sliding into place over Brody’s chest to apply pressure while another starts to assess Brody’s vitals.

They can do something.

They’re trained for this.

Mitch watches as they set up oxygen, apply a pressure bandage, rolling Brody over to secure a second bandage into place before setting up on IV and hooking Brody up to a portable monitor. One of them inserts a tube into Brody’s chest, which drains with blood while Brody’s chest rises.

That’s why they’re paramedics.

They talk about blood pressure, oxygenation, heart rate and collapsed lungs. He’s going to need a few units of blood for sure, and they may have to tube him. If they scoop and run, they reason, they might just have a chance. Brody might have a chance.

And that’s why Mitch is just a lifeguard.

They load Brody onto a stretcher, and they don’t hesitate or look back as the crowd parts for them. Brody is moved to the waiting ambulance, packed up with the doors closed and sirens on as it starts out from crowded beachside to the hospital nearby.

Mitch is still standing there.

Just another civilian in the crowd.

-o-

It takes Mitch several long seconds to realize he’s not alone. In fact, he probably would not have noticed at all, but Ellerbee pats him on the shoulder consolingly.

“You found our guy, then,” the beat cop says apologetically.

It’s only then that Mitch sees several more officers have gathered, already canvassing and securing the scene, starting to gather up witnesses. They know exactly what to do. They’re cops, after all. This is their job.

“Brody,” Mitch starts, but his voice sounds strange. He clears his throat and tries again. “Brody ID’d him. I didn’t get a good look.”

If Ellerbee is disappointed that he’s not getting a good description, he hides it well. “The beach was full. We had lots of witnesses. Several of my cops already have a working description. We’ll cross reference the reports, but you better believe we’re already looking for the guy.”

He’s so matter of fact about it that Mitch doesn’t know what to do. This is as much his case as Ellerbee and he’s got nothing.

Because, Mitch realizes dimly, Ellerbee is a cop. Mitch? He’s just a lifeguard.

Ellerbee pats him on the shoulder again. “Come on, man.”

Mitch looks at him, confused. “Why?”

Ellerbee is unusually patient for one. “Because you’re covered in blood, my man.”

Looking down, there’s even more blood than Mitch remembers. He wonders how Brody has any left. “It’s not mine.”

“I figured,” Ellerbee drawls. “But I figure you still belong at the hospital.”

This seems obvious the way Ellerbee says it, but Mitch can’t quite figure out why. He’s brain is slower than it should be. Shock, he thinks, but he’s not sure what to do with it. In his mind, he’s still scoping out the wrong guy on the beach whole Brody comes running, yelling his name. “Why?” he asks, wondering if Brody’s there yet, if the ambulance has unloaded Brody into the ER, where trained doctors and nurses are treating him. “I’m just a lifeguard.”

Ellerbee gives him a look. It’s a funny look, one Mitch thinks isn’t warranted because Ellerbee has always been the first to tell him his place. He has every right to rub this in Mitch’s face, to tell him I-told-you-so. But this time he actually looks sorry instead. “You do know that you’re the reason Brody’s alive, right?”

Mitch knows that he’s the reason Brody is shot. His quizzical look speaks for itself.

“That much blood, man,” Ellerbee says. “Brody would have bled out without first aid. By the time I got here, it probably would have been too late.”

Mitch is shaking his head. He can’t listen to platitudes, especially not ones that make him out to be some kind of hero and not a lifeguard utterly out of his depth.

This is a new place for him to be, almost entirely. He’d thought getting fired was hard, being thrust from the purpose he knew he had for his life. This, though. This is finding out that his purpose is not as clear as it used to be, that maybe being a lifeguard isn’t the quintessential element of existence like he once believed.

All he’s ever wanted to be is a lifeguard.

Now, standing with blood stained hands on a beach he calls his own, he’s not sure that’s actually enough.

Next to him, Ellerbee draws a long breath and lets it out. He cajoles Mitch with a pat on the shoulder again. “Come on,” he says, motioning back toward the parking lot. “Let’s get you cleaned up a bit. You can give me an informal statement.”

The words almost don’t even make sense to him. “Statement?”

“About what you saw,” Ellerbee says. “Nothing too formal, and then we’ll get you down to the hospital.”

Usually Mitch is the one giving orders and making plans. This time, he can’t even get his brain to function. “I don’t -- I don’t know.”

“It’s cool, it’s cool,” Ellerbee says, like he knows exactly what’s going on. It occurs to Mitch that Ellerbee may in fact know exactly what’s going on. He’s a cop; this is a crime scene. “Look, the scene is being secured. I told you. I’ve got officers already canvassing the scene and taking witness accounts. Backup is on the way.”

“Backup?” Mitch asks, watching as Ellerbee’s fellow cops do the work Ellerbee says they’re doing. He wonders why he’s not noticed how efficient they are before. How many are there within minutes. 

“Sure, I mean, we’re going to need a manhunt,” Ellerbee continues, because he’s thought of this already. He’s thought of everything, like a proper cop would. “I mean, I am just assuming this is our guy.”

Our guy, Mitch thinks dumbly. He thinks about the twitchy guy in the long pants and the too-big hat. Mitch can provide a thorough description of him, but all he remembers about the other guy is what Brody told him before he passed out. “Hawaiian trunks. Green hat. Flamingo umbrella.”

Ellerbee is somewhat impressed. “So you did see him.”

“No, Brody had eyes on him,” Mitch says, and he remembers the panicked look on Brody’s face when he ran. The terrified look in his eyes as he struggled for breath. “That’s his ID. He gave it to me, when he was, when he was--”

Mitch can’t bring himself to finish.

Mercifully, Ellerbee understands more than Mitch is saying. “Well, all the more reason for us to get to work.”

Mitch looks at him, almost for the first time since he arrived on the scene. Ellerbee wanted this to be a joint op from the beginning. It hadn’t occurred to Mitch that Ellerbee was the one doing him a favor sometimes. “Us?”

“Well, me and my cops on the scene,” he says. “You do yours.”

This seems ridiculous now. Like, really ridiculous. Mitch ran into this with a life preserver. He’s not even wearing shoes. “I’m a lifeguard,” he says, as if he realizes for the first time what the actual implications of that are. He’s not ready for a gun fight. He’s not ready.

“And a friend,” Ellerbee says. “I mean, Brody’s your boy. Far as I can tell, you got the most important job of all, helping him pull through this.”

These are the kind of things you say to someone in shock. These are the things you say to someone who’s just been through hell and doesn’t have their feet quite on solid ground. These are the things Mitch has always said to the people he’s pulled out of the water, the families of the victims he’s not able to say.

He’s always meant them, of course.

But he’s never really thought about them.

What they mean.

The implications.

Mitch isn’t sure it means anything.

You go to the beach, looking for a nice, relaxing day, and you come home one family member short. You want to learn how to surf, and you take your board out and get dragged to shore not breathing. It’s your golden years, and you want to walk on quiet beaches, holding hands in the surf, but forty years of marriage ends with tragedy.

You’re a lifeguard, and you want to keep your beach safe, but you get your best friend shot right in front of you.

It doesn’t _mean_ anything.

“You got something to change into at HQ?” Ellerbee asks, but he’s already steering Mitch away from the beach. “Let’s go find out before we borrow a squad car and check on Brody.”

Mitch isn’t sure if that sounds like a good idea or a bad idea. The best idea or the worst.

Shit, Mitch isn’t sure of anything.

Instead, he follows Ellerbee, step by step, away from the beach.

-o-

Ellerbee knows his way around Baywatch HQ probably more than he should, considering that Mitch has only seen him in there a handful of times. But he walks through it like he knows what the hell he’s doing, which is probably a good thing. Because Mitch hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing.

People have already heard the news, but they still gawk to stare when they see the blood. A few try to ask questions, but Ellerbee intervenes with a quiet commentary that Mitch is too numb to bother hearing.

Part of him knows this isn’t how this is supposed to go. Baywatch is his program; he’s the lieutenant. Everyone looks to him for answers and insights and the plan. 

Mitch only has answers he doesn’t want, insights he doesn’t know what to do with and a plan that ended up with Brody being rushed to the hospital.

Mitch doesn’t know anything today.

Ellerbee prods him into the shower, where Mitch removes the red splashed trunks and shirt. A fresh pair is waiting for him when he gets out, and he feels cleaner, fresher and infinitely worse. His head is clearer, is the problem, so he’s aware now of just how stupid this whole thing is.

To make matters worse, Ellerbee is still being really nice to him.

Like, unreasonably nice to him.

This isn’t without precedence, probably. Ever since the shit went down with Leeds, he and Ellerbee have been on much better terms. There is still snide commentary from time to time, but there’s also a new respect that makes them mutuals. On top of that, they’ve actively worked together on cases. They’ve relied on each other. It’s been good.

Except Mitch is the one who doesn’t quite get that they’re not mutuals. He agreed to Ellerbee’s plan to play backup and then tweaked it to fit his own needs. Ellerbee has every right to call him out on this shit, and every second that goes by where he’s nice instead is harder and harder for Mitch to comprehend.

Because honestly, Mitch wants someone to call him on it. He wants someone to look at him and tell him it’s all his fault. He’s not sure why he thinks that will help, but if someone else gives voice to the guilt he feels inside, at least that might make it real.

Not _this_.

Mitch can wash away the blood, he can leave the scene. Maybe he can answer questions, even.

None of that changes the resounding echo of a gunshot meant for him.

It makes Mitch want to rage. He wants to kick, scream and punch. He wants to curse and rip and destroy. Anything to give outlet to the drowning pit of despair that’s eating away at the inside of his stomach.

It never comes, though.

Instead, when Ellerbee gives him a once over and asks, “You ready to go, man?”

Mitch only answers in a monotone voice, “Sure.”

 

-o-

Mitch isn’t sure where Ellerbee musters up a squad car. Probably the same place Mitch gets jet skis and motor boats. Those are things lifeguards just have at their disposal because they’re important for the job. Cops, on the other hand, have squad cars, sirens, handcuffs, warrants. Guns. Things important for their jobs.

But here Mitch is, sitting in the passenger’s seat.

It’s not as if he can reach over and take the wheel.

Not that it stopped him this morning.

-o-

 

As a lifeguard, Mitch doesn’t regularly follow up at the hospital. Sure, he pops in from time to time, going to support a friend or a victim after a particularly harrowing rescue. Usually he just brings a few flowers and his winning smile to chitchat in a recovery room about the importance of water safety the next time around.

That’s how it is as a lifeguard.

Ellerbee, it is apparent from the moment they park, has had a different experience as a cop. Mitch knows where the waiting room and the general admission floors are. Ellerbee, however, clearly knows his way around the ER and he greets the desk nurse there with a smile.

“Elodie, my lady,” he says to her kindly.

She smiles back, if a little weary. “Too nice of a day for you to be in here,” she says. “I didn’t think we had anyone in handcuffs today.”

“Not here for a suspect,” Ellerbee says.

She looks momentarily concerned. “Not one of yours?”

“No, not exactly,” he says, casting Mitch a low look. “Just, um. One of our lifeguards actually. The GSW that was just brought in?”

Elodie looks from Ellerbee to Mitch, and seems to understand.

Ellerbee continues anyway. “This is Mitch Buchannon, Baywatch’s finest,” he says, nodding to Mitch. “He’s the one who was there when your GSW was shot. Probably saved his life.”

Her expression turns decidedly sympathetic. “Oh,” she says, and then sighs a little. “I’ll have to check, but I think they moved him out pretty quickly. Redline up to the OR, but I’ll have to look it up to see the doctor in charge.”

“Could you do that?” Ellerbee asks, and he smiles. He can be charming, when he wants to be. When he’s not dealing with lifeguards. “We’d appreciate it.”

She smiles at him warmly. “Anything for my favorite beat cop,” she says. “Why don’t you two head on back to the private waiting room? You know the one.”

“That’d be great,” Ellerbee says. “I imagine we’ll get some more lifeguards showing up soon.”

“I’ll be back when I know something,” Elodie says. She walks around, giving Mitch’s forearm a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry; your friend is in good hands here.”

Mitch thinks he probably smiles.

There’s nothing else for him to do.

“Come on,” Ellerbee says, jostling him at the shoulder. “This way.”

-o-

They wind their way through the corridors, past the waiting room Mitch is most familiar with. Ellerbee nods to a nurse or two more before he finally stops outside a room with large glass windows. Inside, there’s a couch and a few lounge chairs with a TV in the corner. Magazines are spread across the table. 

Ellerbee quickly pulls the blinds before turning back to Mitch. “So, this is private, comfortable, and Elodie will take real good care of you,” he says. “Do you know if Stephanie and the others are coming? I mean, surely Summer’s on her way.”

Surely; Mitch doesn’t know. Mitch is supposed to be in charge of his team at least, and he’s done jack shit.

“Do you need me to stay?” Ellerbee asks. 

Mitch looks at him. Sincerely, he has no idea what to say to that. The only thing Mitch needs is Brody back, for Brody not to be shot, and those seem like impossible tasks right now.

Ellerbee seems to understand that he’s asked an impossible question. “I just mean, are you going to be okay here? By yourself?”

This time, Mitch finds the energy to scoff. Incredulity is about the only response that seems reasonable to him at this point. “I’m not the one who’s been shot.”

If Mitch is trying to shock Ellerbee, it’s not working. In fact, Ellerbee looks mildly unfazed. Merely concerned. “I know, I know,” he says. “But you’re still in shock, dude. So I can hang out here until someone else shows up, or longer, or whatever.”

It’s still an issue of respect for Ellerbee. He doesn’t seem to grasp how fundamentally Mitch is to the problem here. Maybe he doesn’t know that Mitch pursued a lead without calling for backup. Maybe he thinks there’s another explanation.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Mitch shakes his head in an effort to focus himself on what mattered. “That guy is still out there, the guy who did this to Brody,” he says. “You have a job to do and it isn’t in here.”

“I’m a cop, I know,” Ellerbee says. “But there’s a shit ton of cops, and almost all of them are already out on that beach. They can handle it without me, so if you need me to stay….”

It’s Ellerbee’s job, though. Ellerbee has to know what his job is and he has to do his job. That’s how this whole thing works. Someone has to do their job if Mitch is going to go and screw his up.

And this isn’t even about him anymore.

This isn’t even about the suspect.

This is about the asshole who put a bullet through Brody’s chest.

“Find the bastard,” Mitch says. “Please, I have to know you’re out there, doing your job.”

Ellerbee is primed to argue. “Mitch--”

“Seriously,” Mitch says, finding some of his conviction again. For this, he has to. “I need you to catch this guy because that’s not my job.

There’s a flash of something like regret on Ellerbee’s face, like he wants to disagree. But he looks at Mitch, and maybe it’s pity, maybe it’s mutual understanding, maybe it’s his own private conviction. Whatever the reason, Ellerbee nods. “Okay, then,” he says. “I’ll check back as soon as I know anything.”

Mitch watches him go, watches the door close, and watches the stillness around him for a few seconds longer.

Then, he looks around the room.

A waiting room.

It’s ironic, because Mitch isn’t big into waiting. He’s all about taking initiative, being proactive. Idleness is not something he even knows how to do.

But this is his job right now.

He sits down on the couch, wearier than ever.

_This_ is the job.

-o-

Mitch isn’t sure how long he sits there, alone.

He’s pretty sure it’s not long.

Summer is the first to show up, with CJ and Ronnie by her side. She’s crying, and when she looks at Mitch, he expects her condemnation.

She hugs him instead.

Clinging to him, she sobs into his shoulder.

Mitch finds himself hugging back.

It’s not clear to him if he’s comforting her.

Or if she’s comforting him.

-o-

Within an hour, the once empty waiting room is full. Lifeguards, as many as can be spared, all here waiting for word.

They’re here because they know who they are.

They know who Brody is.

And they have no idea what Mitch is done.

As hard as it is to take that, it’s harder to dispel them of their misconception that Mitch is a victim here. Mitch’s failure to take responsibility -- well, it’s just another way he’s fallen short of the job today.

-o-

Elodie comes back not long after. She looks at the crowd gathered, and seems encouraged, but when she looks at Mitch, she somehow sees that he’s still. When she speak, she’s speaking to everyone, but her eyes are solely on Mitch.

“I’m sorry for not getting here soon, but I wanted to know the full story before I came here and told you anything,” she says. “First to say, he is currently in surgery. So, he’s still alive.”

It’s clear to Mitch that she’s done this job for awhile; she knows what her role is and she has no qualms playing it.

“It is, however, going to be a very long surgery,” she explains with a little sigh. “There is significant damage to his lung, but the biggest concern is that the bullet shattered one of his ribs.”

Summer makes a noise, a small inhalation mixed with a cry as everyone else holds their breath.

“We have the best team of doctors on the case,” Elodie assures them. “Dr. Spano is our cardiothoracic fellow, and she does outstanding work. Honestly, your friend could not be in better hands.”

No one moves; no one speaks. Mitch isn’t even sure if he himself is breathing.

“It is going to be a very long night, as you can imagine,” she continues. “Chasing down the bone fragments will be a tall task, and the team really wants to make sure that they don’t miss any.”

Mitch knows she’s saying this mostly for him, but Mitch can’t bring himself to look at her anymore. All he can think about is how much it must have hurt for when Mitch applied direct pressure to Brody’s chest when his lung was shredded and his rib was shattered.

Even when Mitch does his job, he still manages to make things worse somehow.

Elodie purses her lips and takes a second to look at the entire crowd of Baywatch lifeguards. “You’re all more than welcome to stay here throughout the night and into the morning,” she says. “I’ll check on you and make sure that one of the doctors comes down every now and then to let you know how things are going.”

She waits another few seconds, making sure there are no other questions. She waits longer still until Mitch meets her eyes and nods. It’s like she wants to know she’s done her job, and Mitch can’t begrudge her that.

At the eye contact, she nods before making her way back to the hallway to her next task.

When you do your job, living with yourself is easy.

When you don’t.

Well, Mitch is still figuring that one out.

-o-

In the waiting room, the others talk. They talk quietly, sometimes they sound sad, but sometimes they seem to be trying to buck each other up with happy memories. A few talk about the case, about the maniac who did this and how they hope the cops have caught him by now. There’s lots of talk about Brody, about how much he’s changed, how much he’s grown to fill the role of lifeguard so perfectly. 

Sometimes they talk to Mitch, asking if he’s okay. A few times, someone tries to ask him what happened. Mitch doesn’t say much; the words elude him. He knows what he’s supposed to do in this situation, but he can’t be transparent today. He can’t be their leader, their rock. Mitch can’t do his job right now.

He’s too numb to even try.

Instead, he spends most of the night looking at his hands while people bring him cups of coffee he never drinks. As the others reassure themselves that Brody’s going to be okay, Mitch picks at the dried blood, which is still stuck in the grooves of his nail beds.

All night, he fiddles with it, scratches at it, even excuses himself once to wash it.

It doesn’t come of.

Mitch can’t get rid of it.

It’s not until morning that he’s finally too tired to try.

-o-

Elodie says good morning at 7 AM when her shift starts up again. She brings donuts because she doesn’t just settle for the bare minimum in her job; she goes above and beyond.

The others eat gratefully and Mitch watches as Elodie ducks out again, unnoticed.

He would have liked Elodie, on any other day.

Any other day.

-o-

It’s not long after when a doctor comes in. She’s about Mitch’s age, and she looks exhausted. She’s taken the time to strip out of her dirty scrubs, but Mitch can see from her face just how long and hard the night has been for her. He recognizes the look. No doubt, he looks the same. Except this doctor at least has a good reason. She’s the surgeon who has been cleaning out Brody’s chest all night. Mitch is just the lifeguard who has done, well, nothing.

What could he do? He’s a damn lifeguard.

Her smile is polite, trained, tired. She’s working hard so her expression belies nothing. “I just saw your friend Mr. Brody transferred over to the recovery unit,” she explains neatly. “He tolerated the long procedure as well as can be expected, so I have him listed in critical but stable condition.”

The room is taut with fear, teetering just on the cusp of relief.

Dr. Spano, true professional that she was, knows this already. “He’s not out of the woods by any stretch, and his recovery will be extended, but the fact that he’s made it this long is a good sign.”

Summer breathes first, letting out the anxiety she has pent up with a shudder.

“Does Mr. Brody have relatives we should call?” the doctor asks, transitioning effectively.

Everyone looks at each other, not sure what to say. Invariably, they all look to Mitch next.

This is a mistake. Mitch has no idea what to say either. Apparently, as a friend, he’s no better prepared than he was as a lifeguard.

“No,” Stephanie interjects, and it’s clearly on his behalf. “Um, just us.”

Dr. Spano mentally catalogues that note and reshifts her attention. “Well I’ll need to go over the specifics of his case with someone who will be involved in his after care and recovery.” She pauses to look at them each in turn. “If there’s someone…”

The question seems to make everyone uncomfortable. They exchange glances, and Mitch feels them look at him, one after another. When Summer all but stares him down, Mitch knows he has no choice but to act.

“Me,” he says, and his voice sounds funny and hoarse. The force behind it is manufactured and wobbly, not sure and confident like usual. “I’m the one responsible for him.”

He means that, though not in the way that everyone else thinks.

When Dr. Spano appraises him, he still wonders if she can see it in him the way he sees the truth in her. “Very good,” she tells him. “If you’d care to walk with me.” She gestures for the door.

Summer steps forward before they can leave, and Mitch finds himself hoping that she’s changed her mind, that she wants to play the girlfriend card. It’s a role she hasn’t screwed up as epically as Mitch as botched his.

Instead, she claspes Dr. Spano by the hand. “Thank you,” she says. “For everything you’ve done for him.”

Mitch knows what the doctor is going to say before she says it. He knows it, because he’s said it after every successful rescue he’s performed in the long and varied history of his life guarding career.

“I was just doing my job,” she says. “I’m happy to have been here to help.”

It’s all Summer needs to hear. It’s all the doctor needs to say. When people do their jobs, things tend to work out. Mitch knows this.

It’s when you fail in your tasks, don’t live up to your duty, that’s when things get hard.

Mitch knows that from experience now, too

-o-

She watches him, a little keener than before. She’s trying to get a read on him, like Mitch might try to read someone on the beach. This allows him to pick the best conversational tactic to intervene in any given situation. It’s part of the job, a part Mitch is generally pretty good at.

Just not today.

Luckily, the doctor is on her A game, even if Mitch is decidedly not.

“Your reputation precedes you,” she admits as they navigate the halls. “I know you’re a professional, but it’s never business as usual when it’s someone you know and care about.”

For some reason, this makes Mitch want to laugh a little. “I’m just a lifeguard.”

“Exactly,” she says, and she turns abruptly, pushing open a door to a side room and holding it for Mitch. “So I know you’re no stranger to dire situations.”

He’s not sure why people keep thinking that that someone makes a difference, when, in fact, it only makes him feel more ridiculous. He steps inside the room anyway.

She follows him, flicking on a few additional lights to illuminate several panels on the walls. “But no one’s prepared for this,” she says, and now she’s smiling at him kindly. “I wanted to show you a few of his scans just so you understood what we’re looking at here.”

Mitch is drawn to the walls, looking at the x-rays that are slapped up against the light boards.

She moves to them, pointing at one of the images. “This is the image we took before surgery,” she explains, finger tracing a path along the white outline of the ribcage, which is marred and disjointed. “It’s actually remarkable that only one rib was shattered, here at the front. Somehow, the bullet missed all bones in the back, which made reconstruction a little easier.”

Mitch understands what she’s not saying; that easy is a relative term, especially in situations like this.

She points to a second image. This image is cleaner in some ways, but the white outline is marred by metal components. “There was enough bone to salvage for reconstruction, but it’s a very delicate procedure as you can imagine,” she says, tapping on a few of the screw, which show up as darker spots on the image. “He tolerated this better than I expected, but he’s in great shape, so he had a lot working for him.”

And against him, Mitch thinks. “The rib will heal?”

“Yes,” she says, sounding a little grateful that he’s following along. “He’ll need to limit his mobility for a few weeks until healing is pretty far along.”

A few weeks seems like a long time, but everything seems like a long time. Mitch doesn’t know how to think past today. “And his lung?”

“We repaired that as well,” she says. “I was very impressed with how quickly his body responded to the treatment. Most patients with these kinds of injuries have to stay intubated and sedated for several days, even a weak. But he started triggering the vent as soon as we eased off on the sedation after surgery, and with his output levels looking as strong as they are, I thought we’d give him a chance for a little faster recovery.”

“So he’s really okay?” Mitch asks, while the images of Brody’s broken insides seem to suggest otherwise.

“I meant what I said: he’s doing very well given the circumstances,” she says. “But it is a long recovery process, and it’s not over yet. It’s absolutely critical that he remains calm and not be agitated. We’ll also have to watch very carefully for signs of infection, but we’ve got him on antibiotics already to help counteract that.”

He looks at her, away from the images.

She smiles. “He received fast and effective first aid, which I’ve been told is thanks to you. You likely saved his life. You made my job easier, at the very least.”

Mitch can’t help it; he scoffs. “I didn’t do anything.”

“We all have different roles to play in this process. Doctor; police officer; paramedic,” she says, and her disposition softens somehow, slipping from its ultra-professional resolve. She looks younger like this. “Lifeguard.”

For some reason, the compliment makes him nauseated. Mitch quickly changes the topic. “Can we visit him?”

“Sure,” she says, her posture all business again. “I’ll have one of the nurses come by and get you back to him in a few minutes. Was there anything else you needed from me?”

“You kept Brody alive,” he replies honestly and gratefully. “I could not possibly ask you for more.”

-o-

He finds his way back to the waiting room on his own. The doctor offers to help him, but Mitch isn’t sure he can take any more help. It’s not that he’s too proud; it’s that he’s too numb. The thought of more sympathy is more than he can handle.

With that in mind, he’s both relieved and daunted to see that Ellerbee is there when he gets back. He gets a sneaking suspicion that everyone has been waiting for him. This assumption might be a sign of Mitch’s egocentric worldview. Or it could be the anxious, guilty, and expectant looks everyone gives him when he comes back.

Standing in the doorway, Mitch has the immature desire to run. This is not the default for him. Really, he’s usually the guy who’s scared of nothing. But if he can5 take help, he’s not sure pity is something he can stomach either.

“Hey,” Ellerbee says, and he flashes a smile. “Everyone was just telling me the good news.”

Mitch’s throat is so tight it actually hurts. When he smiles, it feels like something is being wrenched from his chest. “Yeah, the doctor just explained some of it,” Mitch says. “For a guy who had a bullet tear through his chest, Brody’s actually pretty lucky.”

They can talk about ribs held together by screws, the risk of infection, the weeks of immobility and the fact that Mitch still has Brody’s blood caked into his nail beds later.

Or never.

Mitch isn’t sure which he prefers, but he’s pretty sure he deserves neither.

“That’s good news then,” Ellerbee says. “And I’ve got more.”

Mitch glances around, feeling nervous about this proclamation for no particular reason. The fact that everyone seems to be beaming now is even more unnerving.

Ellerbee is trying not to look to happy, but Mitch can tell when he looks at him again that the cop is actually downright gleeful. “We caught him.”

The way Ellerbee says this, Mitch knows it’s supposed to be clear who is being discussed. But Mitch finds himself at more than a little bit of a loss.

Ellerbee just enthuses more. “We caught the bastard who did this, the one who’s been stalking your lifeguards and the one who pulled the gun,” he says. “We caught the bastard who did this to Brody.”

Mitch blinks, somewhat dumbfounded.

How is that he’s forgotten the guy they were looking for when this started?

Because Mitch has been so busy blaming himself that he’s forgotten that there was an actual gunman involved.

“We’ve got our best questioning him right now, and I know it’s early so I shouldn’t speculate,” Ellerbee continues, despite the fact that he’s clearly about to speculate. “But the guy still had the gun on him. We found his prints on it; he’s got gunpowder residue on his hands. We have to match the bullet, but that shouldn’t take long. Plus, we found pictures of the lifeguards all up and down the beach in his car. On top of that, several witnesses have already nailed him in a lineup. I mean, the only thing we don’t have is a confession, but I say we just give it time. This case is closed.”

The way he says it, it’s just like that.

Simple, to the point. Finished.

The case is closed.

“It’s great news,” Summer says, unable to hold it back any longer. She hugs Ellerbee. “I cannot thank you enough.”

“Seriously,” Ronnie joins in. “This makes going back to the beach so much easier.”

“We’re so glad for all the work you did,” CJ says.

Ellerbee, though he’s trying not to show it, enjoys this praise. Mitch knows this isn’t because Ellerbee is full of himself. No, Mitch understands that’s how it feels when you do the job right.

And Ellerbee’s made an arrest.

He’s caught the stalker.

He’s caught Brody’s gunman.

He’s done everything Mitch failed to do.

Mitch steps forward, reaching out his hand to shake Ellerbee’s. Ellerbee steps forward to meet him, drawing himself up to his full height almost by instinct to come eye to eye with Mitch. “Thank you,” Mitch says, because he owes Ellerbee this. He owes Ellerbee more.

Soberly now, Ellerbee nods, shaking Mitch’s hand. “I was just doing my job.”

“I know,” Mitch says, wishing it didn’t hurt so damn much. Because everyone did their job; that’s the point.

Everyone did their job except Mitch.

-o-

When Elodie shows up again to tell them it’s okay to visit Brody now, Mitch lets the others go, two at a time. Summer and CJ go first. Ronnie and Stephanie go second. The others file in and out while Mitch waits outside, feeling useless. 

Part of him wants to go in, to see Brody and assure himself that the younger man is truly alive and okay. The last time he saw Brody, he was bleeding to death on Mitch’s beach, on Mitch’s watch. Knowing that Brody’s not going to die -- probably -- is truly good news.

But there’s also a part of him who doesn’t know how to face that. Because Brody’s prognosis is nothing short of a miracle, and it’s a miracle that Mitch had absolutely no part in. He didn’t save Brody’s life; he didn’t catch the culprit. Worse, Mitch knows the truth. Mitch knows that he dragged Brody in pursuit without backup. He knows that he didn’t even see the maniac who pulled the trigger. He knows that Brody took the shot so Mitch didn’t have to.

Mostly, Mitch is still too numb to make up his mind on anything. It’s all he can do to stand in the hallway and look like he’s not completely out of it. It’s all he can do not to run away because this feels like failure in a way Mitch hasn’t felt failure before.

And really, Mitch isn’t sure he’s necessary. His presence hasn’t added anything to this experience for anyone. In fact, if he wasn’t here, this might have turned out a hell of a lot better.

Or, you know, not happened at all.

Mitch has almost talked himself into leaving when he hears a small commotion.

He looks up, expecting to see nurses converging on another ICU cubicle.

Instead, the commotion gets a little louder and Ronnie sticks his head out of Brody’s room. “Mitch, we need you.”

Mitch’s heart is pounding; his palms are sweating. He’s back on the beach, trying to make sense of Brody coming at him when the sound of a gunshot rends the air.

Except he’s here, in a hospital.

Brody’s recovering from surgery.

And what the hell is Mitch doing this time?

Same as before, apparently: nothing.

“Mitch!” Ronnie exclaims.

Mitch blinks. “I’ll go get a nurse--”

“No, we need you, man,” Ronnie says, looking a little confused. “Mitch, please.”

Mitch feels wholly inadequate; he doesn’t want to do this.

But what right does he have to refuse?

For as unworthy as he may feel, he’s even less worthy to refuse.

That’s a decision Mitch can live with, if only because he did not make it himself.

-o-

Inside the room, Mitch has to take a second to get a handle on the situation. This is what it felt like yesterday, watching Brody lift blood slicked fingers in the afternoon sun, the sound of the gunshot still echoing off the waves. It hadn’t made sense; Mitch had been a critical step behind.

Just like this doesn’t quite make sense either; he feels a lot further than a step behind this time.

Summer is at the bed, sitting on it. The figure on the bed is moving. Flailing is the first term that comes to mind, but the movements are too weak to do such a term justice. It’s still a struggle, though it’s hard to say who’s struggling more: the figure on the bed or Summer as she tries to hold him down while crying.

Or Mitch, who has no idea what the hell is going on.

Summer looks back. “Mitch, thank God!” she says. “He’s sort of conscious, but not really. We’re supposed to keep him still but he won’t calm down.”

Mitch frowns, watching as the figure -- Brody, he reminds himself, that’s Brody -- kicks feebly at the sheets. “If we need a doctor--”

“Just help him!” Summer pleads. “I think he’s confused; I don’t know if he recognizes me, and I can’t--”

Her voice breaks off, and Mitch somehow knows what she means. Physically, she’s able to contain Brody at the moment. Emotionally, it’s too hard for her to see him like this, to see him struggling and not be able to help. Brody’s hurting and he doesn’t know why. Summer’s hurting and she knows exactly why.

All Mitch can think is: this is his fault, too.

“I can get the nurse,” Ronnie offers, almost looking for a chance to leave.

Mitch doesn’t want to act.

He’s not sure he knows what to do.

But if this is his responsibility.

Then this is his responsibility.

He’s moving before his conscious mind can talk him out of it. Summer slides out of the way for him, and Mitch moves into her position, perched on the edge of Brody’s bed. He sees immediately why this is hard for Summer: Brody looks terrible. He’s pale and weak; the bandages cover his exposed chest, and there are multiple IVs, a number of leads and monitors, and he looks too small, too young, too weak. His breathing is coming in shorter and shorter bursts, and Mitch tries not to flinch at the memory of blood flecking his lips.

He’s not on the beach anymore.

The doctor fixed Brody’s chest; Ellerbee caught the guy.

Now it’s Mitch’s turn to do _something_.

“Hey,” he says, grateful for the deepness of his voice, the way it sounds like he’s confident, like he knows what he’s doing. “Brody.”

His fingers are firm around Brody’s biceps, gently holding him down to the bed with ease. Even though he feels Brody strain against him, Mitch makes sure there’s nowhere to go.

For either of them.

“Brody,” he says again, a little demanding this time. He has no right to ask Brody for anything, but he’ll do it for Brody’s own good. He remembers the x-ray, the one where Brody’s chest was being held together by screws. “Hey.”

Brody’s eyes are open but wild. He’s looking around frantically, like he doesn’t know where he is or what’s going on. He probably doesn’t, in all honesty, and Mitch isn’t looking forward to explaining it to him.

That’s not a conversation for now, though.

Right now, all Mitch needs to do is help Brody remember who _he_ is.

And hope like hell the rest falls into place.

“Brody, you’ve got to calm down, buddy,” he said, noting the way the beeping of the heart monitor is racing irregularly. “Brody.”

Brody makes a muffled sound, something like a groan, a cry and a plea all at once. He’s not able to speak, though, but he blinks rapidly a few more times, eyes roving until they finally pass over Mitch’s face.

Mitch seizes his chance. “Brody,” he says, determination and certainty filing him now. “You’re okay. We’re all here now. You’re okay.”

This is as much the truth as Mitch can hope it is, and even if he can’t convince himself, it’s just enough to convince Brody. Brody’s blue eyes lock on Mitch’s. For several seconds, his body remains taut, as if the question of whether to fight or not is still one he’s considering. It’s not clear he knows what he’s supposed to be doing right now, but as he looks at Mitch, it’s clear that he trusts Mitch to do the job even when he’s not sure what it is anymore.

Brody trusts me.

All the shit Mitch put him through in the last day, and Brody trusts Mitch.

The fight drains from him -- Mitch can feel the tension leaving his muscles as he sags back against the bed -- and the panic dissipates from Brody’s eyes as his breathing starts to ease out. Mitch stays there, eyes locked on Brodys, fingers firm, as Brody’s energy starts to fade and his eyes start to unfocus once again. When he closes his eyes, Mitch knows he’s the last thing that Brody sees.

Then, as suddenly as it starts, Brody’s asleep and calm again.

Mitch stays there for several more seconds, just to be sure.

He stays there until Brody’s safe.

Until the job is done.

Then, he lets go, tears his gaze away and gets to his feet.

Mitch can apparently still do the job.

Even if he has no idea what that means.

“Excuse me,” he says, ducking past Ronnie and Summer. “I need to…”

He doesn’t finish; he doesn’t know what he wants to say.

He just knows he needs to leave.

-o-

Mitch is out the door, halfway down the hall without even a thought to where he’s going. He probably would have made it all the way out of the hospital if he hadn’t heard Summer calling his name.

As it is, it takes Summer three tries to get him to stop.

When he turns, he tries to maintain his composure, but he just can’t. His smile is pained; his face is taut. He can’t; he can’t; he can’t.

This is a new conclusion for Mitch. He’s the guy who made a final assault using fireworks and combatted a minor gunshot wound in his own shoulder with deadly urchin poison. He always believes he can. Mostly because he knew he was a lifeguard.

Now that he doesn’t know what the hell it meant to be a lifeguard, he doesn’t know what he was actually capable of either.

It’s an identity crisis at the worst possible moment.

“Mitch,” she says again, jogging slightly to catch up with him. Her eyes are still red, but her cheeks have been forcibly wiped dry. She’s been worried about Brody; right now, however, it’s clear she’s worried about him. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” he lies, not trying to come up with a convincing reason why

She wets her lips, frowning a little. She’s not used to disagreeing with him. “Um,” she says. “I know this has been, like, a crazy night. And I know you were there, when it happened.”

She’s trying to create a narrative, and Mitch can’t bring himself to fill the rest of it out for her.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks instead.

Mitch searches for a convincing lie but comes up with nothing. He shrugs. “Brody’s okay, right?”

“Better,” she says. “Sleeping. Calm again. Thanks to you.”

Mitch just shakes his head. “Not because of me,” he says.

“Sure it is,” she says. “I couldn’t get through to him, but you came over and he listened. That’s you, Mitch.”

“He’s only here because he got shot protecting me,” Mitch tells her bluntly. It’s something that everyone knows, kind of, but Mitch hasn’t said it so plainly. “I’m sorry.”

Summer just looks confused by his apology. “Sorry? Mitch, you didn’t shoot him.”

She doesn’t get it. She can’t possibly get it because she has allowed herself to fathom that Mitch might actually be wrong. It’s not something he’s intentionally cultivated amongst his people -- his tendency to be right is merely self evident -- but it’s not universal. The most dangerous part is that he allowed himself to believe it, too.

It’s the consequence of being so self assured that you miss out on the little niggling of overconfidence. Mitch has rightfully expanded the definition of lifeguard because he can.

He’s never stopped to consider whether or not there should be limits on that.

Even when he’s the one nursing a bullet wound, that’s one thing.

But when it’s someone else?

Mitch has to rethink this in a serious, serious way.

“I took this investigation way beyond the scope of jurisdiction,” Mitch continues.

Summer looks at him like she hopes he’s kidding. “But we’ve never let jurisdiction stop us,” she argues. “Not when the beach is at risk. And it was clearly at risk.”

“And we had backup all around; armed backup,” Mitch says. “Brody didn’t feel safe doing it; he told me so. But I ordered him to follow me to check up the lead anyway.”

“Because he trusts you,” Summer protests.

“And that got him shot,” Mitch replies bluntly. He wants to soften it for Summer’s sake; but he can’t soften it for her sake at the same time. She needs to understand. Everyone needs to understand. “It wasn’t our job.”

Summer recoils slightly, almost like Mitch has slapped her. “Of course it’s our job,” she says, forehead wrinkled now. “If you hadn’t gone after that creep, who knows what he would have done. He was armed and ready to use it.”

“I shouldn’t be able to make calls like that,” Mitch says, feeling a little desperate for someone to understand. Brody’s blood is literally still on his hands; this has to be a point worth making. “I didn’t even see the actual perp; Brody did. And he jumped in front of the bullet to save my life.”

“Because he’s your friend,” Summer says.

“And we’re _lifeguards_ ,” Mitch counters, and it’s as diminutive as he’s ever said the word. “No one should be chasing gunmen or getting shot. Not when we’re lifeguards.”

Her hackles flare, and it’s a reflexive response. “But we’re more than lifeguards at Baywatch,” she says, rehashing the old line. No matter how much conviction she lends to it, it still sounds hollow to Mitch. Her eyes are pleading now. “Isn’t that what you’ve always told us?”

“But what if I was wrong?” Mitch asks, voice low and quiet.

Her face grows tight, her jaw clenching as she visibly holds back tears. “Then what the hell is any of this for?” she asks. When she blinks, her resolve falters and a tear slips free. “Brody’s in there, shot right now. Shot because you told us we were more than lifeguards and we believed you. We believed you, Mitch. He believed you.”

Her words are cutting now, sharp and to the point. When the intensity of her gaze is too much, he has to look away.

He hears her inhale raggedly, and when he ventures a look back at her, she has forced her breathing to even out. “Look,” she says, even though her voice audibly wavers. “We’re all just a little emotional right now. We’re tired. It’s been a long day; a long night. We can talk about this later when we’re thinking more clearly.”

That’s a reasonable request, even if Mitch thinks it’s superfluous as far as his position is concerned. However, as much as he needs to make this point, he’s self assured leadership could use some tempering right now. He nods his head. “Sure.”

This appeases her, if only a little. A bit of the tension eases from her forehead, though she still looks thoroughly disconcerted. “But right now, this minute,” she clarifies. “Right now you have to go back in there.”

Mitch glances down the hallway, as if he hopes she’s indicating a different location than the one she is. “But what about you? I thought you’d want to be with him.”

This is an appropriate response that has some truth to it. Even if it’s not the real reason why he’s trying to get the hell out of this hospital. 

“Sure, I’m not leaving him,” she says. “But you shouldn’t leave him either.”

He knows the argument she’s making; he can already hear the words before she says them. Words about friendship; words Mitch believes but doesn’t know how to make sense of anymore. “I don’t know,” he hedges instead.

But Summer, as probably is to be expected, is positively adamant. “Mitch, he took that bullet for you because we’re there for each other,” she says, and he appreciates that she’s not mincing words at least. Not that it makes it easier to hear. “He needs you now; we all do.”

How the hell does he counter that? What’s he supposed to say in his defense? That assumes he wants to defend himself.

This isn’t so simple. This about Mitch screwing up and needing absolution. This is about a fundamental reckoning of what Mitch is actually all about. Summer’s guilt trip is effective, but it obfuscates the reality.

Which is this: “I’m just a lifeguard.”

“I don’t care about you being a lifeguard,” she says. “You’re his friend, his best friend--”

“Summer--”

“You are,” she says. “He thinks the world of you, and I get it, he bitches and he moans, but he practically idolizes you. And if you feel guilty, then fine, feel guilty. But don’t make him suffer because you don’t know what to do with yourself. Because he’s in there, and he doesn’t know shit either. He just knows your voice and _that’s_ the only thing that calms him down. So go. If you can’t be a lifeguard, then be his friend.”

Mitch knew that was coming, but when she says it, he’s still effectively cowed. He’s right; there is no defense.

There is only acquiescence.

For Summer’s sake.

And mostly for Brody’s.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “Of course.”

“Good,” she says, and she lets out a breath that she didn’t seem to mean to hold. She wets her lips, trying to gather her composure again. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“Wait,” Mitch says, surprised. “Where are you going?”

“I promised the rest of the team I’d give them an update,” she explains.

“I can do that,” Mitch offers, even though it’s not something he wants to do. It’s just that it’s not the last thing he wants to do, which makes it more palatable than the thought of facing Brody.

She levels him with an unyielding stare. “Best friend,” she says. “You’re the one who kept him calm; not me. If he wakes up, that’s what he needs.”

The protests die in his throat, not because he doesn’t want to give them but because he knows Summer will never accept them. 

“Just stay with him,” she says, a little more diplomatically soon. “You’re the only person I trust him with.”

He watches her go, fixing her hair and trying to straighten her shirt as she tries to rally herself for a march back down the hall. She trusts him, then.

Mitch turns back to Brody’s room, wondering why.

-o-

Mitch has made a lot of promises. A lot of hard promises. He keeps his promises. Especially the hard ones.

Somehow, sitting next to Brody’s hospital bed, this is the hardest one yet.

Not that he’s actually doing much of anything. Summer had been emphatic about Brody needing him, but the truth is that the Olympian is mostly unconscious the whole time he’s here. This is only to be expected; not even a day has passed since he was shot. He spent all night in surgery. There’s no way Brody should be awake or coherent.

In some ways, this makes Mitch’s presence utterly pointless. He tries to reason his way through this, but when he gets up to pace the room and think about leaving, Brody stirs on the bed, turning his head unconsciously toward Mitch with a groan. 

On his feet, Mitch hesitates.

Brody all but whimpers until Mitch sits back down.

Damn it all if Brody doesn’t settle right away, his head still tipped toward Mitch, as if he knows he’s there even when he’s supposed to be deeply unconscious.

Mitch wants to hate him for that, but it’s a little hard to hate the guy who saved your life.

And that’s the hard part about this. It’s that Brody saved his life. Mitch is the one who is ready to give up everything for his team, and this time, he has to accept that from someone else. This isn’t just about Mitch being wrong or making a mistake. This is about his failure to protect his team; his inability to be the leader he thought he was.

It’s all cool when he’s getting shot. He’s down with poisoning himself.

But when it’s Brody who’s laying down his life? When it’s Brody who’s taking one for the team?

Well, Mitch sees the other perspective clearer than he’d wanted. Maybe this is why Brody bitches and moans. Because when someone else runs into danger blindly on your behalf? It’s a hell of a thing to witness.

A hell of a thing to take.

All Mitch wants to do is shake Brody and tell him to stay down, shut up and _be a lifeguard_. Stop jumping in front of bullets, damn it.

Except Mitch knows where he learned it.

He’s learned it from Mitch.

Shit, Mitch explicitly taught it to him.

And now he’s surprised that Brody’s internalized it?

Like a bullet through the chest?

Mitch can’t leave -- he knows that -- but he also can’t bring himself to look at Brody. Not the lax lines of his face; not the gray hue that underlines his face. Not the messy tousle of his hair or the minute flickers of pain across his unconscious features.

Looking down, he still sees the creases of blood in his fingernails.

He closes his eyes for the lack of something better to do.

He shouldn’t be here; Brody shouldn’t be here. Mitch has never believed in limiting himself, but this isn’t about what he can do. This is about what he should do, with other people in his charge. He can be a superhero lifeguard, put his life on the line, so and and so forth. But the people under him? The lifeguards he’s charged with training and leading?

They’re people.

It’s like he always says, Baywtach isn’t a job. This isn’t about lifeguards.

Baywatch is a family.

It’s about people.

He opens his eyes; Brody’s still there, turned toward him. Brody still trusts him, even after all this.

The question isn’t whether or not Mitch has been worthy of that trust.

The question is if Mitch ever can be.

He doesn’t know.

He sits there, holding fast to the promise he wishes he didn’t have to keep, and Mitch just doesn’t know.

-o-

Sitting there by himself with Brody is hard. It’s uncomfortable and it leaves Mitch plagued with doubts he can’t stomach and thoughts he can’t settle.

It’s harder still when other people visit.

And a lot of people visit.

When Brody first joined the team, he’d been the odd guy out. He’d been brash and offensive, and honestly, he hadn’t gotten it. As lieutenant, no one had wanted anything to do with him. In many ways, Mitch has preferred to think of him as the perpetual outsider.

It’s clear, however, that Brody is not that guy anymore. He’s a well liked, thoroughly respected member of the team, as evidenced by the fact that _everyone_ on Baywatch stops by to visit him. Ronnie sits with Brody and tells him that he’s been trying to keep up on the workout regimen but that he still needs some help because the idea of lifting his own bodyweight is actually physically impossible for him. CJ comes by and squeezes Brody’s hand, telling him that he’s made tower two a better place than she ever imagined it could be.

People tell him that he’s funny, that he’s made good saves, that he’s been a great team player. They thank him for filling in extra shifts and for providing key backup during cases on the beach. They compliment the way he sings in the shower, the way he doesn’t barf in the ocean like he does in the pool and the way he fills out the Baywatch uniform like no one else.

Then, to make matters worse, they always turn to Mitch and say how lucky Brody is that Mitch was there to save his life.

Like Mitch isn’t the reason all this started in the first place.

Those are bad, but the worst is still Summer. She doesn’t ply him with platitudes anymore; in fact, she largely takes to leaving him alone. Summer is there for Brody, almost exclusively, and watching her hold his hand and watch him breathe reminds Mitch that this is more than a job.

Brody’s more than a lifeguard. He’s got a life now; he’s got connections. 

Mitch hadn’t thought about any of that when he ordered Brody to pursue a lead without backup.

It’s all he can think about now.

Sitting there, Mitch realizes just how much Brody has changed since he first showed up at Baywatch. He’s done everything Mitch has ever asked him to do -- and then some. He’s become a damn good lifeguard. He’s become an even better person. He’s become a friend, a coworker, a lover, someone that everyone else values as a person.

Not just a commodity on the job.

Mitch has somehow overlooked all of this.

He’s taken it for granted.

And here they are, Brody in the bed with his ribcage held together by screws.

Brody shouldn’t be here.

Finally, after several hours of enduring this torture, Mitch knows he can’t be here either.

Clearing his throat, he gets hastily to his feet, trying not to look Summer in the eyes. “I should probably go.”

Summer is still holding Brody’s hand as she tilts her head back at him. “What?” she asks, like she’s possibly misheard him.

She hasn’t, though. Mitch can’t take it back mostly because he’s not sure he can physically do this anymore. “I should go,” he says again, gesturing to the door like it’s totally normal to leave your best friend when they’re laid out in a hospital bed after taking a bullet for you.

Summer frowns. “Now? But why?”

She asks it like there’s no possible reason to justify this choice. And really, there’s not. Mitch can’t justify it.

Instead, he falls back on the only line he can think of that makes any sense. “I need to go back and check in with work.”

This seems quite sensical to Mitch, but Summer appears incredulous. “Work?” she asks. “Why?”

That is the question, isn’t it? Mitch only has a canned response that sounds hollow when he says it out loud. “I can’t leave Baywatch unattended,” he says. “It’s my job.”

Like that means anything. Like Brody wasn’t his job. Like keeping his people safe wasn’t his job.

Summer is kind enough not to go that route. Instead, she turns toward him a little more. “Stephanie’s got it,” she says. “She and I talked about it; she’s cool with picking up the slack until we’re able to get back to work. Until Brody’s awake.”

Of course this is the case. This is naturally what Stephanie would do, even if she weren’t explicitly asked. She’s smart about these things, and she knows how to operate Baywatch. She’s also keenly perceptive. She knows who Brody needs most, and she’d prioritized time off for those key players. Summer’s an obvious choice.

Mitch, undoubtedly, is too.

Still. Mitch doesn’t blanch. “I’m the lieutenant,” he says, as if it means something now. “It’s my responsibility.”

Summer looks like she wants to remind him that this is his responsibility, too. Like she wants to point out that Brody’s his responsibility. But they both know how well that turned out.

Ultimately, her fingers still locked on Brody’s, she concedes that she has other priorities right now. She wants to stop Mitch, maybe even to help Mitch, but Brody needs her more. Brody deserves her more.

Mitch won’t begrudge her that.

He wouldn’t begrudge it on Brody’s behalf either.

And honestly, he’ll use whatever he needs to. He just needs to get the hell out.

“Anyway,” he says. “I’ll check back later.”

“Mitch,” Summer says, stopping him before he leaves. She looks back at him, looking sadder than before. “Just remember that this is about more than responsibilities, okay?”

He nods at her, but acknowledges nothing. He turns, heading out the door, moving blindly down the hall. It’s easy for her to talk about responsibilities when she hasn’t dropped the ball on all of hers.

With a few sharp turns, he finds himself outside, squinting in the sunlight.

Mitch has forfeited most of his responsibilities now. Whether he goes or stays, he’s pretty sure he can’t rectify that now.

Forcing himself to breathe, he starts off down the way toward HQ.

If he can’t figure out how to be a good friend, then maybe he can start with being a better lifeguard.

-o-

Maybe, he thinks.

At least, until he actually gets to HQ.

The second he gets there, he has serious doubts about this choice. He feels out of place, and the familiar rooms are suddenly foreign. Nothing has changed; nothing except him.

Worse, maybe he hasn’t actually changed. Maybe he’s still the same guy he’s always been but he’s just never seen things, seen himself, clearly until now.

By the time he makes it to his office, Mitch knows that this is a mistake. However, he also knows that some mistakes are like bullets. Once they’ve been discharged they can’t be put back in the gun. Especially after they’ve ripped through someone’s chest.

He’s still standing, looking at his office like it belongs to a stranger when Stephanie’s voice comes from behind. He should probably be startled. He’s not.

“Brody awake?” she asks.

He turns toward her. She’s leaning against the doorframe in a casual pose, but the question is anything but. “Still in and out,” he replies.

She considers that as she considers him. She’s studying him, gauging his physical and emotional state with silent rigor. “I would have you’d stay,” she says, a little cryptically. She’s trying to ask him why without using the words.

Mitch’s answer is equally obtuse. “It’s not a question of wanting to,” he says. “But I have a job here. Responsibilities.”

“Exactly,” she says. “And the team is the job.”

Everyone keeps saying that. He hadn’t realized how influential he was until his own words were used against him. Until he was the only one who couldn’t remember.

Mitch knows he has no defense. Feebly, he looks back to his desk, settling for an excuse instead. “I’ve got to be behind with the paperwork,” he says, looking at it on his desk. He makes no attempt to pick it up. “I’m the lieutenant.”

“When ch means you can delegate,” she points out. “To me.”

“But I’m supposed to sign off,” he says, weaker than before. “I’m the one responsible as a lifeguard. That’s my job.”

The way he says that, it’s almost a desperation. As if he can fix this through paperwork and protocol, both of which he disregarded yesterday.

“Mitch,” Stephanie says as she steps inside the office now. “Your job has always been the team, before anything else. That’s why it works. That’s why you need to just go back and be with Brody now.”

He doesn’t know how to explain it, how to tell her that nothing works anymore. That he’s not sure he’s the best thing for the team at all.

“I wasn’t thinking about the team yesterday,” he reminds her dully.

Her face contorts. “Of course you were,” she retorts. “You were protecting us against a real threat, and that was a threat that paperwork and protocols never would have fixed.”

“Police backup was right there,” he says, the same facts tumbling through his weary head. “I’m a lifeguard.”

“You’ve never been just a lifeguard,” she says.

“And if I should be?”

She scoffs but her face softens. “Then this wouldn’t be Baywatch,” she reminds him. “Because you made us more than lifeguards. Because you made this team a family. Your job isn’t here right now. It’s back there. With Brody.”

She says it with such conviction that Mitch knows there’s no way to disagree. All he has is the vulnerability of his doubts, the ones he can’t hide anymore. “And if I cant do the job anymore?”

At this, she is genuinely taken aback. “Mitch.”

He looks away, his thin resolve starting to fray. “Steph.”

She reaches out, putting a hand on his arm. “You really blame yourself, don’t you?”

The question is gentle and so compassionate that Mitch finds himself bristling. It’s not that he’s too manly to accept comfort; it’s that he doesn’t think he deserves it now. He doesn’t want to feel better about this. He wants it to have never happened.

Stephanie’s look is discerning. “You do realize that you’re not a superhero, right?”

“Then why do I keep acting like one?” Mitch returns with a quiet, tremulous vehemence.

She shakes her head, refusing to accept his bitter self-pity. “You don’t,” she says firmly. “You just act like a lifeguard.”

Mitch actually scoffs at that, pulling away from her touch. “A lifeguard? Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” she says. “But you just expect too much from yourself. You teach us to make the hard choices and to live with the consequences. You just forget that you can’t control all the consequences.”

Mitch groans. “Why will no one say that it was a bad call?” he says, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. “I dragged Brody out in pursuit of a subject without calling for police backup. I made that choice over his objections and he got shot for it.”

“It was a judgement call,” she says. “We make them all the time in the field based on the information we have on hand, not the infinite possibilities that could occur. You can’t protect anyone if you’re not willing to trust your own judgement.”

“This isn’t about a dangerous rescue or tackling sand bandits,” Mitch says. “I pursued a dangerous suspect without backup.”

“We had no idea what this guy was capable of,” Stephanie says, refusing to back down from him now. “And we know that police backup is not the same thing as lifeguards on the beach.”

“It was a risk!” Mitch explodes, feeling the emotions brimming too hot now.

She steps toward him, shoulders squared and face defiant. He’s trained her too well. “If we were scared of every possible risk, we could never do the job; we’d never get off our towers,” she says.

Mitch sighs, wishing he could make this clearer. “But this was a gunman, not a heavy surf,” he reasons. “The police were literally on site to handle it.”

“You say that now because of what happened, but I trust your judgement, Mitch. We all do.”

“Sure,” Mitch shoots back, more caustically than necessary. “Brody trusted me enough to take a bullet through the chest.”

He says it loudly, loud enough to echo off the walls. Stephanie does not flinch; if anything, she only looks sad. “You always tell us to make the right choice in the moment because that’s the only thing you can do,” she says. “You’ve taught us -- including Brody, especially Brody -- to live without regrets because you make the right choices in the moment. And we don’t know where those choices take us, but we know, every time, that we’ve done the best we can.”

He grows quiet, feeling her words tighten like a vice around his chest. “And if I didn’t make the best choice?”

“Then you try the next moment,” she says. “Look, I wasn’t there. I don’t know if you were right to pursue the lead, but I know you. I know you were doing what was best for the team; what was best for the beach, for the bay. And maybe it was wrong, okay. Maybe. But you can’t change that. All you can do is make the best choice in this moment. And I can’t speak for the moment on the beach, but I can speak for this one right now. You, being here, it’s not the right choice. And you know it.”

She is uncompromising in this, unrelenting.

She’s also unequivocally right. 

This time, when he sighs, it’s not just weariness. It’s tantamount to defeat. “I should be with him.”

“Yeah,” she says, barely keeping her voice from sounding like _I told you so_.

He meets her gaze again, more resolved this time. Not quite resigned. “Steph, I’m sorry.”

 

“You don’t owe me an apology,” she says. “And for the record, you don’t owe anyone an apology. No one blames you for what happened. No one. This is all in your head.”

It’s not quite that simple, but he recognizes the point she’s trying to make. If this is a team that permits second chances, then he needs to embrace his as best he can. It’s not about deserving it -- if it was, Brody wouldn’t have been on the team in the first place. It’s about wanting it enough to work harder. “Thank you,” he tells her, because he can’t agree with everything, but he can agree with that much.

Now, when she smiles, it’s soft and real. “Nothing you haven’t done for each and every one of us,” she says. “Because you talk like we’re just lifeguards, but you know that’s not what Baywatch is.”

Mitch nods, because he knows how this ends. “We’re family.”

“Family’s messy and weird and uncomfortable,” Stephanie says in commiseration.

“But it’s worth it,” Mitch concludes for her, even though the words are hard to say this time.

They’re harder to live out.

But Mitch can’t bow out on this now.

Not when it’s someone else living out the consequences for his action.

It’s about time for Mitch to give as good as he gets.

-o-

Still, resolved as he is, Mitch isn’t sure how to go back.

Maybe because, when he thinks about it, he’s not sure how he got _here_ in the first place.

On the way back to the hospital, Mitch meanders along the beach. To anyone else, his pace might look leisurely, but Mitch is taking in every sight, every smell, every sound. He’s trying to remember how he came to love this bay, how it became a part of him and how he became a part of it.

He loves it here; always has. That’s why he became a lifeguard in the first place; there simply hadn’t been any other option. And when he first took the job, when he first earned his place on the team, being a lifeguard had been everything he’d wanted. He’d scanned the water, patrolled the beach. The first time he’d seen sand bandits, he hadn’t known what to do. The first time a school of manta ray showed up off the pier, he’d actually gone and called animal control. He never would have, not in a million years, pursued a stalker on his own time without police backup.

He’d been a lifeguard, simple as that.

So when had it changed?

He walks the familiar sands, trying to remember his first case. He tries to think about the first time he went above and beyond.

Then, he thinks about the second time, the third. He tries to remember when the exception became the rule. Hell, when did he start thinking of them as cases at all?

When his mentor had left him in charge, Mitch had expanded his case work, and he’d started to train others to think like him. To protect the bay, he’d argued. It’s all implied in the job description.

All these years down the line, he’s forgotten that it started simpler.

He’s forgotten that he started a little like Brody.

Not that he’d been an Olympian who fell from grace. Not that he’d joined Baywatch as a community service publicity stunt to avoid prison. And not that he’d ever been as lazy or entitled as Brody started.

But is Brody the crazy one? Is he wrong for thinking that lifeguard cases were a bit extreme? Is he stupid for questioning what they’re doing?

Or is Brody’s common sense expected?

More than that, is it something Mitch might possibly need?

Mitch mocks him, lectures him, trains him, but Brody’s got a point. Does he get any leeway for thinking that the job is just the job?

Or does he just get shot?

Mitch looks at the water, watching the people swim and play. Lifeguards can drown. They get sunburnt. It’s not a job without risk.

But gunshot wounds?

Isn’t part of the job description, not even in Mitch’s exaggerated standards.

Yet Mitch has asked that of Brody, more than once.

Maybe this is about Brody not getting it. Maybe it’s not that he doesn’t love the bay or care about the team.

Maybe Brody just wants to be a lifeguard, just like Mitch did once upon a time.

That’s not such a terrible thing.

Mitch stands on the beach, the place he belongs, the place he loves, the place that is a part of him, and he knows it’s not a terrible thing at all.

-o-

By the time he ends up back at the hospital, Mitch isn’t sure he’s figured any of this out, but he’s figured out that he probably needs to try. Whatever that means, Mitch isn’t totally sure, but it’s something he’s hoping he can figure out.

With his team.

Especially Brody.

Before he gets to Brody, however, it’s clear he’s going to have to go through Summer first.

She all but accosts him in the hall, taking him by the arm and drawing him to the side, her blue eyes wide with a look just shy of panic. “Where have you been?”

“I told you, I was at work,” he says, starting to frown at the intensity of her look. “Is Brody okay? Did something happen?”

“Brody’s fine,” she says, as if this somehow a moot point. “But I talked to Steph. You left two hours ago.”

Mitch glances at the clock, realizing that she’s right. He’d taken the long way here, no doubt, he he hadn’t known that that much time had passed. “Huh,” he says. “I guess I lost track of things.”

She looks incredulous. “I know you’re having a hard time with this, Mitch, but Brody’s in the hospital. He needs you.”

“I thought you said everything is fine,” he says.

“It is!” she says. She pulls her emotions back into check with some obvious effort. “I mean, he’s been in and out. I don’t think he’s been coherent yet; not until tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Mitch starts.

“But it’s not okay,” Summer interjects with some force. “Because every time he opens his eyes, I’m the first one he sees but you know what he does? He keeps looking. He’s asking for you.”

Mitch’s frown is deepening. “I thought he wasn’t coherent yet.”

“He’s not,” she says. “But you’re the one he wants right now. The only one he wants.

“Well, I was the last one he saw before he passed out,” Mitch reasons.

Summer actually rolls her eyes. “Maybe, I don’t know,” she says. “Or maybe he’s looking for the person he trusts most in the world, and he’s not here.”

She’s a little hurt by this, but that’s not what she’s upset about. There’s more to it.

She shakes her head a little. “Brody and I have something, okay, but you and Brody -- that’s different. And sure, I want to sit there and hold my boyfriend’s hand, but right now, I’m not the one he needs. I can sit here and feel bad about that but I know you two. I know that friendship you share. So what pisses me off is that he needs you, and you’re not here.”

It’s too much to take in; too much to grasp. Mitch steps back just slightly. “Summer--”

But she shakes her head again, more vehement than before. “I don’t know what you’re going on about, but I’m not mad at you. Not about Brody needing you, not about you being messed up, not about Brody getting shot,” she says. “We all knew what the job was, all of us. We signed up anyway.”

“I’m not sure Brody did,” Mitch replies honestly.

“Of course he did,” she snaps. “Maybe not at first, but after the stuff with Leeds? Why the hell did he take a full time position if he didn’t want it, all of it?”

“Honestly?” Mitch says. “I’m not sure.”

“You do,” she says, jabbing a finger at his chest. “He knows it better than all of us; that’s why you trust him with everything.”

“But he’s the one who tries to talk me out of things,” Mitch says. “He’s still the one who points out what we shouldn’t do as lifeguards.”

Summer shrugs. “Sure, because Brody has a highly developed sense of self preservation,” she says. “And now it’s not just about him; now he wants to keep you -- all of us -- safe.”

“I don’t need to be protected,” Mitch protests, but it’s pretty laughable the moment he says it.

“You’ve already admitted you didn’t see the guy,” she says. “And do we need to review the part where you stabbed yourself with a deadly sea urchin?”

“Okay, so point taken,” Mitch concedes, going slightly red in the face.

“But that’s the thing,” Summer continues, even more animatedly. “Brody has an overly developed sense of self preservation. You basically don’t have any sense of self preservation. You balance each other out perfectly. It’s why you two are so good together.”

Mitch doesn’t know quite what to make of that. “What?”

She makes a vague gesture. “Partners, mentor/mentee, roommates, friends: whatever you want to call it, it works.”

This still doesn’t quite click for Mitch. “What works?”

“His common sense definition of lifeguarding mixes with your over the top heroic version and you meet in the middle where every job gets done and everyone comes home safe,” she says.

“We didn’t, though,” Mitch says. “Not this time.”

“Well, sure,” she relents. “But that’s because you’re just--”

“Lifeguards?” he provides for her.

She looks a little surprised. Then she tilts her head, giving him a quizzical look. “Human.”

There’s the bottom line, Mitch thinks. No matter what definition of lifeguard you go with, at the end of the day, they’re all just human. Humans are weak, vulnerable, prone to being wrong. They’re also brave and stupid, prone to getting it right at the worst times possible. They do better together, even if it makes them stronger and weaker in equal measures.

Mitch has to accept being human first with all its foibles.

Then, maybe, he can figure out what it means to be a lifeguard anyway.

When Summer exhales, she seems to let go of her anxiety and her frustrations. Instead, she smiles at him, a tired, weary sort of smile. “You should go in there,” she says. “I’ll check back later, okay?”

He wants her to stay; he wants her to give him another option; he wants anything but this.

But this is what there is.

Mitch has to take it.

Mitch will, if not for his own sake than for Brody’s. Mitch dragged Brody into this; Brody can drag Mitch back in to see it through.

Finally, Mitch nods of his own free will. “Okay,” he agrees.

It’s possibly the best choice he’s made all day.

-o-

Mitch has come a long way today, but that doesn’t make it easier to sit with Brody again. If anything, Mitch is looking for dramatic change, but Brody is much the same as he was when Mitch left him. He’s still pale, but the color is starting to recover by the smallest degrees in his cheeks. He’s still heavily bandaged with a continual IV drip while the monitors display his vitals. Mitch doesn’t choose to ask questions about some of the other tubes and monitors, though he’s pretty sure Brody will find them most disconcerting when he wakes up.

That said, Brody appears to be in no danger of actually waking up. According to Elodie, who checks on them from time to time, Brody’s on some serious painkillers in addition to his antibiotics. Although he’s not technically sedated, most people are better off sleeping with these drugs in their systems. It’s better than being awake and aware of the hole that’s been barely stitched together in your chest, Mitch figures.

With this in mind, Brody lapses in and out of sleep at random times, and though he opens his eyes more now, nothing he says is remotely coherent. Instead, he makes odd commentary about Little Mitch flirting with the fish in the aquarium and how there’s a secret message on the static on the CB radio.

This is probably a little too much insight into Brody’s mind, if Mitch is honest.

It’s not the hardest part, though.

The hardest part isn’t even Mitch’s guilt. It’s not that Mitch still remembers the sound of the gunshot or the look on Brody’s face when he asked if he was dying. It’s not the blood on his hands or the fact that Brody hadn’t wanted to run recon without backup.

The hardest part is when Brody opens his eyes, he asks for Mitch. It’s the first thing in on his mind, and when Mitch scoots closer, clasps Brody’s limp fingers in his own, he can see the comfort ease throughout Brody’s body. The last thing he says, every time before his eyes close again, is Mitch’s name again. This time, with relief.

Mitch is the reason Brody wakes up searching.

He’s also the reason Brody falls back into a restful sleep.

Everyone’s right: this is his job. Maybe it’s not the job he started, but it’s the one he has now. He won’t abandon it. It’s not just being a lifeguard. It’s about being a friend.

Being family.

Because Mitch starts what he finishes.

No matter what.

-o-

Summer is skeptical when Mitch announces that he has to leave again.

“But you just got back,” she reminds him.

“I know,” Mitch says. “But it’s different this time. I need to finish this case.”

“I thought that was what you were doing before,” she says.

“I was running away before; I wasn’t finishing anything,” he says. “But I owe it to Brody to see this case through.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure he cares right now,” she says, looking over to where Brody was still sleeping fitfully.

“Not now maybe,” Mitch agrees. “But he will. When he wakes up.”

She may not agree with the sentiment, but the way he says that last part, the confidence, the assurance -- 

No one can disagree with Mitch when he’s making a choice he believes in.

“Okay,” she says, and she doesn’t sound resigned exactly. Just trusting, if wearily so. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Mitch flashes her a grin. “Just tell him I won’t be long,” he says. “I promise.”

After all this, Summer doesn’t doubt him.

That’s because Mitch knows that he’s just a lifeguard.

Thank God.

-o-

Mitch is making the right decisions now, but that doesn’t mean that every decision he’s made has been right. He still has to contend with that; he still has to reckon with what might be his most grievous errors.

 

That’s why talking to Ellerbee is so important.

First, Mitch can close the case. This he does within ten minutes of arriving at the station. He ID’s the perp, gives a full statement and submits to questioning as needed. His account fully verifies other witness accounts, and Ellerbee is confident that this case is a done deal.

Mitch is ready to do more, but Ellerbee tosses the case file on his desk and rocks back in his chair to look at Mitch. “You didn’t have to come down here.”

“I started this case with you,” Mitch says. “I wanted to make sure I finished my part in this.”

“Sure, sure,” Ellerbee drawls. “I just thought -- given the circumstances -- that you might want to be with Brody.”

“I do,” Mitch says. “But neglecting the case won’t help anyone except the guy who did this.”

Ellerbee concedes this with a tilt of his head. “Brody’s still doing okay, right?”

“Better than expected,” Mitch says.

Ellerbee chuckles, a little fond. “He’s tougher than he looks, the son of a bitch. He takes after you.”

“For better or for worse?” Mitch quips.

“Both, probably,” Ellerbee says back. “He wouldn’t have let this shit slide either. You should have seen him after you got fired. Bastard played me. But he also bought me a double chocolate smoothie, so I won’t hold it against him.”

 

“We’re all on the same team here,” Mitch says congenially.

Ellerbee nods along, as if this is the best thing he’s heard in awhile. “We are, aren’t we?” he asks. “Better that way, if you ask me. I know I didn’t always see it.”

“We make the best choices we can in the moment,” Mitch answers diplomatically. “It’s not like I’ve made the best choices throughout this case.”

Ellerbee wrinkles his nose. “You kidding me?”

“Hey,” Mitch says, holding up his hands almost in surrender. “I know I stepped outside my jurisdiction on this one. You tried to do right by us, assigning extra patrols. And I still didn’t pull in the backup when I was supposed to. I’m sorry for it.”

“My man,” Ellerbee says, sounding genuinely vexed. “You do realize that you caught the dude. I mean, I spent a week on that case, full time, nonstop. I had nothing. You and your white ass friend went out there and had him ID’d in an afternoon.”

“But without proper jurisdiction,” Mitch points out. “People could have gotten killed.”

“Only because you were the first ones to get close enough to spook him,” Ellerbee says. “I mean, honestly, if he hadn’t made a scene in public, this case wouldn’t have ended with an arrest.”

“Still, there are protocols and procedures. We had a plan,” Mitch says. “And I put everyone at that beach in harm’s way. Brody took a bullet because of me.”

Ellerbee looks like this insinuation offends him. “You didn’t bring that gun to the beach,” he says. “And you sure as hell weren’t pulling that trigger.”

Mitch sighs; he’s just trying to do the right thing here. He’s trying to learn, to make better choices. “I know, but I remember what you said about our pursuit of the thugs in the Leeds case. The same principle stands. I didn’t learn, and the results were worse this time.”

“Like, you know the ocean and the sand and shit, but I know criminals,” Ellerbee says. “Your shooter there, he brought that gun for a reason. He was looking to escalate this shit. If you hadn’t gone looking, there’s a good chance that he would have used that gun later, without witnesses and without anyone to stop him. And then he’d be looking at a murder rap and you’d be burying someone instead of watching them recover in a hospital.”

It’s blunt, which Mitch appreciates on one level.

But it’s also hard to hear.

Partly because Mitch doesn’t like to think of this being worse.

And also because he knows that was one of the reasons why he pursued the suspect in the first place. In all of his self doubt and recriminations, he’s forgotten that he had a plan, that he had reasons. Were they justified? Mitch isn’t sure. Sitting with Brody, it’s hard to pretend like they are. Sitting here, listening to Ellerbee, it’s almost impossible to say they aren’t.

“Look, I’m all for restraint, man. You’ve got to play by a few rules or you screw up the case on my end, too,” Ellerbee says, sitting forward again. His elbows are resting on his desk. “But you know your shit. That’s your beach out there; you know it better than me. I made the mistake once of downplaying that, but you’re the lifeguard, man. I can’t question that, and neither should you.”

There’s no point in arguing that, even if Mitch wants to.

As it is, he’s not sure he does.

Instead, he gets to his feet, offering Ellerbee his hand. “Thanks,” he says. “For everything, but especially for closing this case.”

Ellerbee takes his hand while getting to his feet. “And thank you for helping me do it,” he says. “Cops and lifeguards; we make one hell of a team.”

Mitch smiles. “We probably do.”

“Definitely,” Ellerbee says. “And hey, call me when Brody’s awake? I owe him a double chocolate smooth with extra protein.”

Mitch nods his head on his way out. “You bet.”

-o-

Mitch smiles the whole way back.

The case is closed; the job is done.

Now, Mitch tells himself, he can get back to the job that really matters.

-o-

It’s later than he expects when he makes it back to the hospital. In fact, he quickly realizes that he’s frittered away most of the day feeling numb and sorry for himself. Closing up the case with the stalker had taken the rest of the time, and tying up the loose ends with his other friends and cohorts had preoccupied the more than he’d intended.

By consequence, visiting hours were over.

And Mitch’s most important task isn’t resolved yet.

He frets for a moment, wondering about his best course of action. Everyone else has apparently gone home, but Summer is in the waiting room. He thinks to wake her, but she appears to be sleeping -- possibly for the first time in over a day. Summer deserves to sleep.

Mitch can figure this out on his own.

Well, not entirely on his own.

He’s a lifeguard, after all. He needs someone who works in the hospital to give him a helping hand.

Fortunately, Mitch is good at making friends. At the desk, Elodie recognizes him before he has a chance to greet her.

“You’re too late!” Elodie croons at him. “All your friends went home until morning, except I think for that one with the pretty blue eyes. You might find her around her.”

 

“I saw her, actually, sound asleep,” Mitch says, pointing over his shoulder toward the waiting room.

Elodie smiles sympathetically. “Which is probably what you should doing,” she says, sounding like she’s scolding him. “Your friend is in good hands tonight, I promise.”

“I know,” Mitch says. Then, he postures. Just a little. Just enough. “It’s just I was hoping to see him.”

Elodie eyes him curiously. “The hospital has rules,” she reminds him, but her voice isn’t exactly stern.

“I know,” Mitch says. “You all have jobs to do, and I don’t want to interfere with that.”

Elodie raises her eyebrows, expectant. “But?”

Mitch inclines his head. “But I have a job to finish, too,” he says. “And that job involves Brody.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Elodie hedges. “If I bent the rules for everyone with a good line…”

“Then don’t,” Mitch says honestly. “Just look at the facts. Consider what you know. And make the best decision you can right now. I promise, I’ll accept your decision either way.”

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s earnest. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been shell shocked all day long. Maybe it’s just the fact that Elodie can see it in his face, that this is something Mitch needs to do.

She sighs, but it’s mostly for effective. “Come on,” she whispers. “I’ll let you into his room for the night, give his nurses a heads up for you. They’re nice enough about exceptions, but you listen to them, you hear?”

Mitch nods his head obligingly. “Of course.”

“And you should know, no one expects him to wake up yet,” Elodie warns, even as she starts to lead him down the hall. “Not until tomorrow.”

“I understand,” Mitch agrees.

She’s trying to look annoyed, put out, but the smile is playing on her lips. “He keeps calling for you anyway,” she says. “So I’m doing this as much for him as I am for you.”

“Trust me,” Mitch says. “That is absolutely fine with me.”

-o-

Elodie is good to his word, and she converses quietly with Brody’s nurses, who seem to warm up to the idea faster than she does. When they let him into the room, they tell him to be quiet and keep the lights off. The ward is sleeping; Brody needs to sleep, too.

Mitch will abide by these rules, and in the dimness, he pulls the chair as close as he can to Brody’s bedside and settles himself down. Up until this point, he’s been pretty clear on what he has to do, but he has to admit, sitting there, watching Brody sleep, he has some trepidation.

It’s easier when Brody’s the one who needs to make amends. It’s easier when Brody has to clean up his messes and Mitch has to gracefully accept his apologies. It’s easier when Mitch is never wrong and Brody always is. It’s easier when this isn’t a partnership.

But it is a partnership. And Mitch needs to clean up this mess and make amends. Sometimes, even when Mitch does everything as best he can, he’ll still get it wrong.

“I’m not going to start with an apology,” Mitch says, voice low but clear in the stillness. It carries over the sound of the machines. “Because I know that, given the circumstances, I’d probably make a lot of the same decisions that I made.”

Brody is still sleeping, but he tips his head toward Mitch, the faintest of hitches in his breathing.

“The thing that I’ve to realize today is that those decisions can have consequences I don’t foresee,” Mitch continues. “Which is why I owe you a thank-you instead.”

Brody sleeps on, the rise and fall of his bandaged chest steady and sure.

“Thank you for going there with me, for seeing what I didn’t,” Mitch says. “The reason I didn’t think we needed police backup was because I knew I already had the best backup possible: I had you.”

Brody’s face remains impassive as the heart monitor continues its steady pace.

“I didn’t appreciate what that meant before,” he says, and he lets out a breath. “I appreciate it now.”

He appreciates everything, from Brody’s contrary disposition to his love of the team. From his two stupid gold medals to the way he loves wearing the Baywatch uniform. And, more importantly, he loves that Brody’s still alive, still fighting, still right here by Mitch’s side.

“You’ve grown into an amazing lifeguard,” he continues. “I don’t tell you that often, but you’ve become the person I trust most out there. You are everything that makes Baywatch what it is. You are the very definition of a lifeguard.”

It’s a compliment he should have paid weeks ago, a point that he hopes Brody knows even if Mitch has never taken the time to say it.

“More importantly, though, you’ve become a good person,” Mitch tells him with a stolid nod. “And one hell of a best friend.”

Brody shifts a little, nose twitching slightly.

“So thank you,” Mitch says in conclusion. “For saving my life, but mostly for being my friend.”

That’s really all Mitch has to say.

It’s only then that he realizes that this has taken him all of five minutes.

Awkwardly, he wonders if the nurses will think it’s weird if he tries to leave now.

But he refocuses himself, reminding himself that he’s done what he has to do, but this isn’t just about him. Give and take; two-way streets. It’s Brody’s turn.

If Brody’s sleeping now, if Brody’s recovering, then Mitch will just have to wait until he’s ready.

However long that may be.

-o-

Brody makes him wait.

But not as long as you might expect.

No, Brody lets Mitch fall asleep, an awkward, uncomfortable sleep in the chair at his bedside, before he rouses a little past three AM with a string of mumbled gibberish.

Mitch opens his eyes, ready to pat Brody on the shoulder with a reassuring word. Over the last several hours, this has been all Brody has needed to slip back into a restful sleep.

“It’s Little Mitch, though,” Brody says, as if he’s protesting some imaginary conversation Mitch isn’t a part of. “He’s just not himself.”

Mitch chuckles tiredly, resting a hand on Brody’s forearm. “Little Mitch is fine, as far as I know,” he assures the other man.

But Brody shakes his head, his eyes narrowing with a keenness Mitch hasn’t seen in two days. “I heard them talking, though,” he rambles. “On the CB radio.”

Mitch sighs. “I’m really going to have to move that out of your room, aren’t I?”

Brody appears alarmed. “But if you do that, we’ll never find out who Little Mitch is talking to!”

The adamant note in Brody’s voice is humorously misplaced, but Mitch gives his arm another squeeze. “We can talk about it in the morning,” he says.

To his surprise, however, this does little to assuage Brody’s concerns. Instead, he cocks his head, and he blinks a few times. “Mitch?”

There’s something in the way he says it; something in the way he looks at Mitch. Mitch sits forward, suddenly serious. “Brody?” he asks. “You with me?”

A tremor passes over Brody, as if he’s aware of his body for the first time since the surgery. “It still hurts,” he says, sounding somewhat surprised. He inhales with a grimace. “I got shot?”

All this time, Brody’s never been in acute pain. He’s also never talked about what happened.

Mitch bites back a curse because he realizes abruptly that Brody is awake. In pain -- obviously, confused -- understandably, but increasingly aware. “Yeah,” he says, trying not to make it sound alarming. “But they’ve taken real good care of you. You’re on the mend.”

While semi conscious, Brody had been easily placated. Confronted with both awareness and pain, Brody is not so readily calmed. He takes a ragged breath, as if experimenting with the pain levels in his chest. Clearly, he finds it wanting. “Shit,” he says, giving voice to what Mitch is thinking. “This feels terrible.”

Mitch sees no need to tell him just how terrible it is. He’ll learn about the screws in his ribcage and the hole stitched together through his chest soon enough. “I know, buddy,” Mitch says. “I can get a nurse, see about adjusting your pain meds.”

But Brody is shaking his head. “No, I--” he starts and falters. He has to visibly gird himself. “I don’t know if I can -- be awake much longer.”

“Well probably not,” Mitch says. “They’ve got you on some serious drugs right now.”

Brody winces. “I could probably use more,” he says. “Not because I like drugs. Because I mean that’s not what I mean. I just.” He has to pause, shuddering through another wave of pain. “Getting shot sucks.”

Mitch can’t help but laugh. “No arguments there.”

“You, you made it look easy and cool,” Brody says, voice gaining a little strength now. “But no joke; I thought I was going to die.”

Mitch remembers but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he smiles. “It happens.”

“No,” Brody says, a little intent now. “Like, I saw my life flash before my eyes. Like, all of it. And it sucked. Little Mitch was there.”

Mitch does his best to keep his nod earnest. “That does sound terrible.”

Brody looks at Mitch with a new wave of concern. “I’m not dying now, am I? It doesn’t feel like I’m dying.”

“You’re recovering very well,” Mitch tells him. “The doctors were amazing. And I mean, the cops got the guy.”

This seems to occur to Brody slowly, the idea of other people working to save his life. “Cops and doctors?”

“All hands on deck, dude,” Mitch says.

“Funny,” Brody says quietly. “I’d still take a lifeguard any day.”

“Ah,” Mitch says, sitting back in his chair and averting his eyes. He’s made his peace for the most part; but this bit is still difficult. “Well, as lifeguards, we probably shouldn’t have been involved.”

“But we couldn’t just let it happen,” Brody says. He breathes in and out, gritting his teeth against the obvious pull of pain in his chest. “If we had, who knows what he would have done. I mean, your ideas are always dangerous and sometimes I’d like to not die all the time, but I’m so glad I was there.”

Brody’s weak, he’s in pain, and he’s also completely resolute.

He’s glad he was there.

Not just to stop the guy.

No, Mitch understands the implications.

He’s glad he saved Mitch’s life.

Brody seems to still be thinking about this; it’s possible he’s coming to the conclusion a second behind Mitch. “Like, I was thinking about it,” he continues. “Or, dreaming about it?”

“You’ve been pretty out of it,” Mitch confirms gently.

“Well, it was Little Mitch, you see, he’s the one who told me,” Brody says, and his blue eyes are gleaming with seriousness. “He said that taking risks is the only way sometimes and that it’s worth it when you take the right risks. Like, smuggling drugs while at the Olympics, that’s a bad risk.”

Mitch wrinkles his nose. “What?”

Brody hardly hears him. “But jumping in front of bullets to save your best friend,” he says as if this is some kind of epic revelation. “That’s, like, totally worth it.”

Brody is grinning now, a widen half-drunken smile.

“I mean, we’re lifeguards,” he adds emphatically. “Saving people is what we do.”

“It is,” Mitch agrees. “But getting shot isn’t part of being a lifeguard.”

“For normal lifeguards, sure,” Brody says. “But, like, we’re not _just lifeguards_. Did you hear the message on the CB?”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell Brody that the CB radio isn’t here.

Brody hardly seems to notice his hesitation anyway. Coherency is becoming questionable again. “We’re Baywatch lifeguards,” Brody says. “Even Little Mitch agrees with me.”

Mitch narrows his eyes; he can’t let this one pass. “You do know that we’re in the hospital,” he clarifies. “The fish tank isn’t here.”

At first, Brody looks like he thinks Mitch is joking. Then he looks a little confused. “So, it’s like not on the wall?” he asks, nodding toward the window where an extra chair is abandoned. “Glowing?”

“No,” Mitch tells him.

Brody processes this answer, studying the wall. He looks at Mitch again. “And Little Brody isn’t the size of a surfboard now?”

Mitch winces.

“With a CB radio for a hand?”

Mitch shakes his head. “Afraid not.”

Brody seems truly perplexed by this. “Huh.”

Mitch gathers a breath and sighs. “I think whatever they’ve got you on is making you really high right now.”

Brody looks at him with a dream-like gaze. “Yeah, I think you may be right,” he says. “I haven’t been this high in, well, a while.”

Mitch doesn’t want to ask how long.

“Still,” Brody says. “This is all, like super clear to me right now.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Mitch says in commisration. “I just can’t say you’re going to remember all this.”

Brody is incredulous. “Of course I will,” he says. “The important stuff. Like how I should always listen to your balls, man.”

Mitch takes that one as it comes. Little Mitch; CB radios; balls. All to be expected, he supposs. “Even so,” he says, not willing to have an argument in a hospital with a drugged up Brody about the integrity of his balls. “Next time, we call the cops first.”

He pats Brody on the arm, a little firmer than before.

Brody winces, and it seems to have a sobering effect. “Yeah,” he says, gritting through another grimace. “That’s probably a good call. Do I have a hole in my chest? Because it kind of feels like I have a hole in my chest.”

“It’s stitched closed, don’t worry,” Mitch says, as if that statement would ever make someone not worry.

“Oh,” Brody says, looking down. “Wow. Thanks, man.”

“Not this time,” Mitch says. “You were the one playing hero this time. I’m the one who needs to thank you.”

Despite the fact that Brody remembers what happened, this thought seems to have not occurred to him. The genuine surprised makes Mitch almost ache. “Why?”

“Well, you did jump in front of a bullet meant for me,” Mitch says. “You probably saved my life.”

Brody blinks, his eyes wider than before. “I did?”

“Yeah, man,” Mitch says. “It was a big deal, what you did. You’re my hero, man. No doubt about it.”

Brody looks like this is possible the most amazing thing he’s heard in his whole life. Part of this is due to the drugs.

But not most of it.

“Wow,” Brody says. “Who knew that being a lifeguard could be so satisfying?”

And that’s what it comes back to, when Mitch thinks about it. Brody’s common sense; Mitch’s refusal to settle. They are constantly at odds, which is why they make perfect complements. Two halves of the perfect lifeguarding team, the first and last line of defense that the team and the rest of the bay needs.

“Yeah,” Mitch reflects, grinning at Brody now. “Who knew?”

After a moment, Brody’s smile fades. He blinks, somewhat sleepily now. “Mitch?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m going to fall asleep now,” he says, a little distantly.

“That’s a good idea,” Mitch encourages him.

Brody looks at him, keeping his eyes open. “You’ll be here?” he asks. “When I wake up.”

Mitch sits forward, hand on Brody’s arm one more time. “Of course,” he says while Brody starts to fade again, slipping back into sleep. “This is where my job is.”

This is where it ends.

But mostly, this is where it really starts.

Lifeguards.

_Just_ lifeguards.

Because neither of them could ever ask for more.


End file.
